


A Treatise on Evolution and Extinction

by lucifersfavoritechild



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Asexual Ororo Munroe, Avengers - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Genosha, Humor, M/M, Magneto Was Right (X-Men), Minor Character Death, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Mpreg, Multi, Mutant Politics, Mutant Rights, Mutants, POV Multiple, Plot, Protective Erik Lehnsherr, War, X-Men team - Freeform, dadneto, five parts, roughly equal parts political drama/superhero stories/domestic fluff, superhero fights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 95,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27262315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersfavoritechild/pseuds/lucifersfavoritechild
Summary: In 1964, the X-Men discovered Genosha, a small island where mutants were being held captive. In one day, they liberated the mutant inhabitants. In one week, Genosha was declared an independent country.It all spiraled from there.(formerly titled: The Place Between Rage and Serenity is Northeast of Madagascar)
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ororo Munroe/Original Character(s), Remy LeBeau/Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 72
Kudos: 204
Collections: Start Reading





	1. Adaptive Evolution

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Three Kinds of Learning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/241115) by [luchia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia). 
  * Inspired by [The Stuff National Anthems Are Made Of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/294375) by [luchia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Part One: The Island_**
> 
> Charles and Erik struggle to carve out a place in the world for mutants while their own lives and family changes forever . . .

**Part One: The Island**

_— 1964-1965 —_

“When two aggressive species share the same environment, evolution demands either _adaptation_ or _dominance_.”

 _—_ House of X (2019) #2

Charles woke with sweat on his face.

This was quickly becoming the usual state of affairs. Genosha was almost directly on top of the equator, and no one could question the fact. The island was _hot_ , and more humid than England or even New York in the summer. Every night for the past week, he fell asleep with his blanket half over his legs and by the time he woke, it had been pushed to the edge of the bed. Even so, sweat beaded on his face and neck, patiently waiting to be wiped away.

He took a few minutes to lie in bed before doing so, squirming when his hand came away wet and clammy. He dried it on the sparse sheets. Erik would be annoyed if he saw him — he was meticulously neat and clean, his room in Westchester had barely looked lived-in even when he still slept in it — but Erik was already gone and had probably been awake long before Charles.

Speaking of . . . Charles reached out with his mind, extending the boundaries of his telepathy until he could feel other minds milling around the island. Most of them were familiar by that point, even if they belonged to people he’d only spoken to for a few minutes, but he had to go further to find the one he was searching for. _Erik?_

A beat passed. _Yes, Charles?_

It was difficult to let his mind settle into Erik’s at such a distance, but worth it. There was no one else close enough who let him in fully, and if they were going to have a long day ahead (and they always did now), then he needed that connection, that anchor.

_Are you down on the beach?_

_Yes. With Raven. Planning to join us anytime soon?_

Charles huffed. _**Yes.** Just give me a few minutes to get up. _

_You haven’t wasted enough time?_ He could tell Erik was rolling his eyes, but he was also smiling. _See you in ten._

Charles lay in bed for a few more seconds before dragging himself up and out. The room they were staying in was small, with barely enough space for the double bed (really just two twin beds pushed together) and the few possessions they’d brought with them. He only had one extra clean change of clothes, including plain grey pants and a loose button-down shirt that he put on without a jacket or waistcoat. If they stayed even a day longer, they’d have to either start walking around in sweat-soaked clothes or make use of the former base’s vaguely threatening laundry machines. Neither option was appealing.

He checked that he had the watch Erik had given him before heading out. The base was hidden in the rainforest that occupied half of the island, and the paved pathways weren’t maintained well enough for him to wear anything but his mission-ready boots. It wasn’t long past dawn, but people were already fast at work. Mutants with enhanced strength were carrying hundreds of pounds worth of material. Levitators zapped from place to place and winged mutants flew above the trees to get around faster. People wrapped their tails around bundles and baskets, or used them to carry bags. Others still didn’t have particularly ‘useful’ abilities, but no one hid them, no one tried to cover their bright hair or markings or extra appendages with makeup or heavy clothing. They just . . . were.

It was wonderful.

What was somewhat less wonderful, and actually kind of awkward, was the way they reacted to _him_.

He didn’t know most of them well, or at all really. He’d shared a few words with a lot of them in the aftermath of the breakout, mostly just relaying orders or comforting someone who was still shaken after all that happened. But everyone knew _him_. They’d heard his voice in their heads when the X-Men arrived on the island the week before. They knew that he was instrumental in freeing them. They knew _him_.

It was weird. Not necessarily in a bad way, but _weird._ He was used to knowing everyone around them, using a deft touch on their minds and thoughts. Normally he didn’t go far enough to gain anything more than a passing familiarity, and most people never realized, never gave him a second thought. Now they looked at him when he passed by, hungry eyes taking in his appearance, gratitude evident in the scant words they exchanged. Some people lowered their eyes shyly when they walked past him and muttered their thanks. Others walked right up to him and professed their undying loyalty, occasionally accompanied by an overly enthusiastic hug (and in some cases, an uncomfortably long kiss on the cheek). Children alternated between hiding behind the mutants watching over them (few had been brought to the island with their parents when they were taken), walking up to him and saying a few quiet words before running off, or grabbing onto his legs and refusing to let go.

It was much funnier when it happened to Erik.

_Speaking of which . . ._

He felt Erik before he saw him. Throughout his life, he’d known many minds. His mother, fraying and tired after his father’s death. Raven, ever-changing, but with an unmovable core. Shaw, sharp and sticky and painful, full of poison that threatened to creep into Charles’s own head if he wasn’t careful ( _and it was so hard to be careful when the coin move and he felt Shaw die, screaming and clawing and **fighting** before suddenly there was nothing there at all, as though there never had been and now there never would be again_).

Erik was different. That probably shouldn’t have been surprising, and in a way, it wasn’t. His mind changed from day to day, even minute to minute, faster and more sudden than Raven’s ever did. Sometimes he was as calm and still as the ocean the Xaviers used to visit in the summer, the picture of serenity. Others, he was an autumn hurricane at that same beach, wild and angry, stuck somewhere in the past and the future at once, but nowhere to be found in the present. The first time Charles touched his mind on a day like that ( _second time, the was when Erik destroyed Shaw’s yacht with an anchor while he drifted raging and directionless in a storm, even then a beacon, shining so bright and calling out to Charles without knowing_ ), he was surprised to find he didn’t care. It was still, at the core, Erik, and he wanted all of Erik.

The other mutant was standing on the shore, speaking in low, even tones to Raven. He looked up when Charles approached, likely sensing the metal of his watch in the same way Charles sensed his mind whenever they were near.

Erik smiled at him. Charles instinctively returned the expression, even though it was odd. Erik only occasionally smiled, and hardly ever without prompting. Whatever he was talking about with Raven must have put him in a good mood.

Erik muttered something to Raven, who nodded before turning and running off, shooting Charles a smile as she went. Charles was tempted to peek into her mind and find out what they’d been doing, but he’d promised not to go in her head, especially not for something so petty.

Charles crossed the distance between them, and Erik’s hand curved around Charles’s hip, effortlessly holding him in place. Charles leaned into the touch. “You didn’t wake me up.”

He shrugged. “You seemed like you needed your sleep.” Erik didn’t continue, but Charles picked up his scattered thoughts. It was always strange seeing himself through someone else’s eyes, but it was stranger still with Erik. He saw himself growing increasingly stressed and tired over the past week, trying to manage the two-hundred or so mutants on the island without going insane. Charles skirted around those thoughts, deciding to ignore it for the time being. No need to rush.

Erik seemed to agree. They walked along the beach for a few minutes, Charles intertwining their hands without a care for anyone who might see them. Neither brought up the conversation lingering in Erik’s memory, though Charles was itching to just ask and get on with it. He was seconds from doing just that when Erik stopped suddenly, looking out on the ocean. It was very still today. It had rained the day before, but now the sky was clear, and salty water brushed close to their feet.

“It’s beautiful here.”

Charles nodded in agreement. The skies somehow seemed _bluer_ than they ever were in New York, and although most of the island was rainforest, they were in the dry (relatively-speaking) season, so there weren’t even many clouds. The sand was white and soft enough that their feet sunk into it slightly. The water seemed so nice, sunlight glinting golden off the surface, that he was half-tempted to go for a dip. “It is, isn’t it?” He turned a curious look on his lover. “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

Erik hesitated before answering. “In a way.”

It was an idea they’d been bouncing around for the past few days. Not all of the mutants that had been held on the island had places to go back to. Some of the young ones were orphans; more had run away from home or been thrown out when their powers manifested. The adults didn’t have it much better. Some of them had family or friends who would take them in, but others, those with visible or destructive mutations, had already been living in hiding, desperately eking out a half-existence.

And . . . well, it wasn’t like anyone was using the island now. Their captors had all died when they took Genosha. It was a fact that had kept Charles up that first night, but it simply hadn’t been possible to keep two hundred pissed-off and newly freed mutants from taking revenge on the people who’d imprisoned and enslaved them. Now, no one else was interested in the island, which was so isolated that it didn’t even seem to be under the control of any particular government. No one had been interested in it at _all_ until some asshole discovered the untapped iron and copper mines buried in the ground. 

Hank had been the first to suggest that Genosha could serve as a type of sanctuary for those mutants with nowhere to go. It was an idea everyone had liked, but which none of them entirely knew how to implement. They were pretty sure there were enough people for it to be a self-sustaining community. The base they were living in had basic utilities already installed and reasonably maintained. The grassy region on the eastern portion of the island would be good for farmland so they’d have food. The question now was really about just . . . doing it. Which was the hard part.

Erik stared out on the watery horizon before his eyes snapped to Charles. There was determination etched in the lines of his face, but also worry. He didn’t know if Charles would agree with what he had to say. “What if it was more than that?”

Charles’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What's going on in your head, darling?”

Erik turned so he was facing the island itself instead of the ocean. “No one else is here. No one cares about this place. We could take it and make it _more_. Not just a temporary holdover, somewhere to run when there’s nothing else. This could be a _home_.” Erik’s eyes were shining with something Charles rarely ever saw in them: _hope_. “Charles, this could be a mutant _country_.”

Charles stared back at him, unable to hide his surprise. Of all the things Erik might have said, he hadn’t even considered _this_. “Let it never be said you aren’t ambitious, my friend.” He was hesitating, trying to buy time he knew he didn’t have. “How would we even _begin_ —”

Erik shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it for days, though. We’d need food, a school, a hospital, houses. The power and water grids would need massive expansion. I could try to make the mines safer so I can extract the metal for money, trade, building. We can build an army from volunteers. And we would vote on leaders and a government—”

“Well, _clearly_ you haven’t spent a great deal of time thinking about this.” His joking tone didn’t quite land. He felt off-kilter in a way he normally couldn’t even imagine. But he couldn’t even say this came from nowhere. Erik had brought up similar ideas in the past, but always in theory, a possibility for some far-flung future neither of them expected to ever see. It wasn’t _real_.

But this felt real.

Charles bit his lip nervously, allowing his shields to slip lower so he could feel Erik’s mind more fully. He could tell that he’d been thinking of this longer, perhaps since before they even arrived in Genosha, but last night had been the first time he mentioned his ideas to another person. Raven had been immediately enthusiastic, spurring him further on. Now he felt confident enough to tell the person whose opinion he wanted most.

Charles would be flattered if he wasn’t floundering.

Erik knew that. He stepped forward, drawing his callused fingers over his lover’s soft palm. “You said we could be the start of something incredible. That we could help them.” He squeezed Charles’s hand. “ _This_ would help them.”

Before Charles could try to string together a sentence, Erik leaned down, pressing a barely-there kiss to the telepath’s forehead. “Think about it. We’ll talk again after dinner.”

Just like that, the conversation is over. Charles knew he couldn’t get Erik to talk about it right now even if he wanted to.

It was kind of lucky that he didn’t really want to.

* * *

He was still thinking about what Erik had said hours later. The words stuck with him all day as he helped Hank do inventory in the infirmary, comforted some of the younger mutants who were traumatized by what happened to them, or took down personal information so they could figure out where to take the mutants they’d freed. Of course, then he was wondering if they’d even leave if he went along with Erik’s idea, and then he was stuck thinking about it again. It was nerve-wracking. He’d be looking down at a tray of pill bottles and syringes and think, _Well, if we ever have a hospital, we’ll need to stock it properly and get medical supplies from somewhere, and how would we even find someone to manufacture medicine?_ Or he would be gently soothing a little boy when the thought would come that there were probably many mutant children like them who needed his help, and just think of how much he could help them if there was a whole _country_ for them to come to. He was halfway through his lunch when he realized he’d stopped for ten minutes to think about what types of crops would grow well on the island and how to procure the farming equipment they’d need.

And he knew it was an insane idea. None of them had the foggiest thought on how to build a country from scratch, never mind one with hundreds — maybe even _thousands_ someday — of mutants who would not only need normal everyday necessities, but tons of unforeseeable accommodations, not to mention his support.

And yet . . . _All of us together, protecting each other._ If they didn’t do it, who would?

He waited until they were already in bed, shirts off with the blanket drawn over their waists, before he brought it up. “It’s an insane idea. None of us know the first thing about infrastructure or politics or government. It’s nothing like running a team or even a school.” He saw Erik’s face screw up in the faint moonlight before he added, “Anyone else would fail.”

A long pause spread between them. Slowly, Erik’s lips curled up. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“It means . . .” Charles rolled over on his side, facing him. “I don’t know anyone else I’d even consider doing this with.”

Erik gave him that smile that was reserved for him alone — the one that looked like sunlight and love and soft memories and other equally ridiculous, sentimental things that were nonetheless true. Then he pushed Charles back down on the bed, rolling on top of him and sweeping down to draw his lips into a kiss.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well ... it's here.
> 
> This fic, particularly the first five chapters, is hugely inspired by [luchia's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia) [How To Be Co-Ruler Of Your Own Country Without Really Trying](https://archiveofourown.org/series/10353) series, which is great and I would absolutely recommend reading those two stories. Particularly I borrowed her titles for Charles and Erik, so, luchia, please don't hate me.
> 
> I am planning on an update schedule of every Sat/Wed, but honestly, we'll see. Although this is actually the first time I've started posting a fic when I had more than one chapter already (right now I have the first five), so I'll see how that goes!


	2. Non-Linear Temporal Perception

They waited until the next night to announce it.

It wasn’t hard to get everyone together. Charles projected his thoughts across the island, cheerfully thinking, _Hello, everyone! Charles again. Gather on the western beach in an hour for an important meeting. Also, Alex, please arrive early to help Erik put together a bonfire. Thank you._

The sky was darkening by the time everyone had arrived. More than two hundred mutants gathered around the X-Men in a circle. They murmured amongst themselves in a dozen or so languages (Charles was eternally grateful for Cypher, whose abilities allowed him to understand them all and vice versa, and who had dutifully agreed to work as the island’s translator for the time being). Charles looked around at them. They came from all over the world, all walks of life. He caught glances of a woman with red-orange skin and white dots over her face, a winged man, a person with six arms, all sorts of horns and teeth and eyes and ears. He knew that if they searched the world, they would find hundreds or thousands more like them. _This could be a safe place for all of them. A home._

The thought was humbling. Scary, even. He had no idea if they’d be able to do this, if Erik had misplaced his belief in him.

But he wanted to. Now that he’d thought about it, he wanted it, in the same way he’d wanted to help the young mutants he and Erik recruited two years ago, the way he still wanted to start a school. They were his people, and they were vulnerable. He would help them.

“Charles,” Hank said quietly when they approached, yellow-orange eyes nervous. “What’s going on? You haven’t told us anything. Even Raven said—”

“Nothing bad, Hank, don’t worry,” Charles said, setting a hand on his back. “All in due time.”

He could tell Hank and the others wanted to question them more, but he pressed two fingers to his temple, quieting them. _Ten minutes, children, that’s all._ Alex’s nose wrinkled the way it always did when Charles called them that, but they all remained silent, sitting in the sand and waiting. Another moment, and everyone followed suit, growing quiet as their eyes flickered to Charles and Erik.

He was relieved when Erik stood up, leaving Charles to sit between Hank and his sister. Charles was the telepath, the one who knew what they were thinking, but Erik was the speaker, the speech-giver, better at convincing people and inspiring them when he wanted to be. When Charles looked at him, seeing the golden light flicker across his sharp cheekbones and slate-grey eyes, he knew he could do this too.

Everyone leaned forward. Charles could feel their eagerness, their curiosity, pulsing on the beach like the beating of a heart. Erik looked back at them. “A week ago, you were collared, imprisoned, stripped of your minds and free will. _Enslaved_.” Erik’s eyes darkened. “As though any of you could ever be less than them!”

Cypher spoke after Erik, translating for those who didn’t understand him, and Charles laid a gentle touch on each person’s mind, making sure they could hear. Before he’d even finished, the mutants were beating the ground with their fists and feet, egging Erik on. Charles joined in good-naturedly, smiling at his lover as his hand pounded the packed sand. Erik was stalking around the fire so everyone could see him, but even now, his eyes sought out Charles.

“But in defiance of everything they’ve done to you, I see no weakness tonight. In open _spite_ of the cruelty and apathy shown to you, I see only strength and will, stronger than iron. They did not — _could not_ — break you.” Erik waited for eager shouts and cheers to calm down before speaking again, trying to hide a smile. Charles could tell how much it strengthened him to be surrounded by mutants like this, to see their strength. He was as close as Erik ever got to beaming, pride bolstering his resolve.

“Now I want to offer you a chance — to seize your freedom with both hands and never let it go. To _never_ return to the mercy of those who would fear you at best, and kill and experiment on you at worst.” He looked up at the sky for a few short seconds, taking in the stars and a sky free of light pollution before looking back down. “I’m not going to leave Genosha.”

A few people muttered, confused, curious. Charles flitted from mind to mind, listening in on them wondering what Erik might say, what his plan was. Confused, yes, but not suspicious. They trusted him, felt a loyalty to all of them that Charles hadn’t thought possible.

“I am _not_ going to leave Genosha because I believe that there should be a place where mutants can live openly and freely. Not hiding. Not running. Not just a temporary shelter, or a safe house.” He held his arms and hands out dramatically, voice thick with emotion that Charles could tell was real without even looking in his head. “A _country_. _Genosha._ ”

Charles _felt_ the moment the words sank in. Thoughts he knew weren’t his own flew through his head — _can we do that, how would it even work, what does that mean, how do we start_ — before raising the shields higher around his mind so they wouldn’t overwhelm him. Even then, he couldn’t ignore the feelings that rolled through the crowd like waves in the ocean. Confusion, wonder, excitement, uncertainty, curiosity. They weren’t sure it was possible, or how it could be done, but they wanted it. The fantasy of a place where they’d never have to hide, where they’d be celebrated and protected instead of feared, was one so many of them shared. Erik’s dream seemed almost too good to be true.

“Can you do that?” Sean called out, the first to speak after Erik finished.

“Why not?” Erik questioned. “No one else is here; we are.” Erik smiled, showing his teeth. “And who could take this from us?”

An iron will underlied his amused tone. Charles knew that Erik was entirely serious — if they did this, he would fight for this place if he had to. Charles knew he might have to as well someday. He didn’t know if it would ever come to that. He hoped not.

“This world is not safe for us!” Erik shouted, not needing Charles’s help to be heard, even over the roar of the fire or the chattering of two hundred people. “I have _seen_ the true nature of humanity! I have _seen_ innocent men, women, and children marched to their deaths.” The crowd grew still, curious, fearful. Amongst them, only the X-Men knew about Erik’s past, what was done to him and his family. They only sensed the truth of Erik’s words.

Even so, Charles felt their shock when Erik held up his left arm and rolled down the sleeve. _214782._ Not all of them could make out the numbers, but enough of them got the idea that the knowledge spread quickly. In only seconds, everyone on the beach knew what Erik had seen. What he’d survived.

_My Erik . . ._

“I have _been_ at the mercy of humanity. That’s how I know they don’t have any.” Erik’s face was as hard and cold as stone. Charles knew he meant everything he said. The pain that rung through him was enough that Charles didn’t even challenge the idea in his own head. “I have seen my people killed for someone else’s baseless fear. Their _hate_. I swear to you now — _all_ of you — that I _will not see it again!_ ” Erik’s eyes burned with the passion and urgency and _pain_ of someone who’d seen the future and would do whatever it took to stop it. “Stay with us! Build a _new world_ with us! A place where no one you know or love will ever be tortured, experimented on, _killed_!”

Erik’s grey eyes burned like molten metal. “Are you with me?”

Any hint of hesitation that might have been there earlier had long since faded away as a new feeling overtook the mutants — _hunger_. They wanted this. Maybe more than they’d ever wanted anything. Charles couldn’t help being swept up by their emotions. His own doubts were gone, melted away by the realization that they _needed_ this, that it wasn’t an option to do anything else. Nothing could stop them now.

A wave of shouts went up, energetic, frenzied yells of “ _Yes!_ ” in half a dozen languages.

“Will you stand with me — fight with me — leave with me — _die with me?_ ”

 _Yes, Yes, Yes,_ two hundred times _**Yes**_. Charles was not surprised to find himself shouting with them. They were his, all of them staring at Erik with the devotion of warriors ready to fight and die alongside their leader.

Erik smiled — not the soft expression he used on Charles in the morning, but the confident, proud look of someone in the middle of a great victory. “Then let’s start.”

* * *

They spent the rest of the night on that beach. When Charles reached out for the minds around him, he felt them buzzing, as drunk on the excitement of a new future as they were on the bottles of whiskey, rum, and brandy someone had found tucked away in the base. Children chased each other around the sand, their caretakers leaning back to watch them from close by with a fond look. Everyone else was excited, loudly telling stories, speculating about what the future might hold for them, making outrageously unrealistic plans, and — most amazingly — showing off their powers. Colorful flashes of light filled the sky, courtesy of a child named Jubilee. Two people with super strength wrestled in the sand. Raven’s scales shimmered, transforming from one person to the next, taking on more and more impressive mutant forms. Somewhere, Sean’s impossibly loud voice was belting out a song he’d heard on the radio a month before, not caring that it was too distorted to be recognizable. Someone made gold and orange animals from the fire, sending them dancing over the heads of the crowd.

Charles hadn’t known it was possible for their kind to feel this happy. This . . . _free_.

Erik was sitting in the sand beside him, one hand lightly set on Charles’s waist, not seeming to care if anyone noticed. Charles did nothing to dissuade him, taking it a step further by resting his head on Erik’s shoulder, entranced by his reassuring warmth. If anyone thought it was strange, they either didn’t care or didn’t mention it. No one wanted the moment to end. Charles wondered if there was a mutant somewhere who could freeze time, who could let them live out this moment forever, unending.

“Hold on,” Hank said.

_I shouldn’t have tempted fate._

“Hold on!” Hank repeated himself louder when no one heard him. It took a few moments, but then everyone was staring at him, curious and a little annoyed. “Who’s gonna be in charge? Don’t we need a government? Some kind of leader?”

 _Ah, Hank._ Worrying over logistics while everyone else was still caught up in their fantasies. Charles wasn’t even annoyed.

Erik shrugged. “It’s our country. We can choose whoever we want.”

Charles stared at him. “Isn’t it obvious, though?” He stood up, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s Erik.” He spoke with a certainty he wouldn’t have known he had — the only other time he’d felt this was that night off the coast of Florida, when he felt Erik’s mind lashing out like a hurricane, powerful and wild and hurt and beautiful, a beacon of light and a siren calling him out to sea all at once. “It’s always been Erik,” he said, meaning it in more ways than one. “This was his idea. He’s a founder and leader of the X-Men. There’s no one in the world who cares more about defending our people.” His eyes softened when they landed on his lover, Erik staring at him with a face that was so . . . so _open_ , so _desperately_ in love that it was hard to believe it was the same person. “There is no one in the world I would rather have lead us.”

Charles held a hand out to him. Erik, hesitating only a split-second, not long enough that anyone else would notice, took it, standing. Around them, the sound of two hundred mutants stomping on the sand and chanting Erik’s name echoed around the beach. Erik looked out on them. He could do it. He _would_ do it. They would be his people, and he would defend them with his life, to the ends of the Earth.

Erik’s lips curled into a smile. “Alright!” He shouted, trying to get them to quiet down. “Alright, I accept!” As if there had ever been any question. Who else?

Erik’s eyes, turned to liquid gold by the fire, met Charles’s. Before the telepath could see what he was going to do, Erik spoke, louder, “And I want Charles to lead with me.”

Charles stared, as stunned as Erik had been only a moment ago as a roar of approval filled the beach. “Me?”

Erik seemed even more certain of this than he was of himself. “You’re one of the most powerful mutants I’ve ever met. We couldn’t have freed Genosha without you. You’re the other founder of the X-Men — Hell, we’re _named_ after you. The _X-gene_ is named after you.” His eyes softened, imperceptible in the night to the others, but Charles felt his sincerity, his love. “You’re the one who kept this team together through impossible odds. I want you by my side.”

The mutants echoed the same sounds they’d made moments before, only now it was Charles’s name instead of Erik’s. He searched their minds for doubts, for anything to validate his own uncertainty. He found nothing.

“Okay!” Charles said, standing up. “Okay! If you think I can, who am I to deny you?”

Raven nodded, mind sparkling with mischief. “Yeah. Besides, everyone knows a King needs a Queen. We couldn’t just leave Erik hanging.”

Charles rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, _thank you_ , dear sister, your confidence is heartwarming.” To Raven, he thought, _Am I allowed to be offended that my own sister didn’t nominate me?_

This time, Raven didn’t complain that he was in her head. _Didn’t want to take away from Erik’s moment. Besides, I knew he’d say you. What else was he gonna do? C’mon._

Before Charles could think of a comeback, Hank was leaning forward, speaking rapidly. “Well, we still need to decide what form of government we’ll have, put together a police force and an army, and we should be thinking about infrastructure— oh my God, we don’t even have a _flag_ —”

“Hank?” Charles said, sitting back in the sand and smiling to himself when Erik joined him. “Let’s think about it tomorrow. For now, let’s just celebrate.”

They did.

* * *

The dawn of the next morning was when the real work began. Now, they were planning something much bigger than sending people home, and it was all hands on deck.

And it started with Erik actually waking Charles up.

Charles groaned pitifully when strong hands started to shake his shoulder. “Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, pulling the thin blanket over his head. “I thought you cared about me!”

“Of course I do, _Liebling_ ,” Erik said sweetly before ripping the blanket away. “Now get up in the next five minutes or else I’m going to find a bucket and dunk you with water.”

Charles pouted. “No one told me I would have to start getting up early now.”

“You should have thought about that before you decided it would be a good idea to lead a country.”

“What— this was your idea!”

“Four minutes.”

Charles stayed put for another three and a half before dragging himself up. He got dressed, groaning again when he realized, irritably, that this meant they were going to have to do laundry now. Pity. If only he’d remembered sooner, he might have said no to Erik’s idea.

 _No you wouldn’t have,_ Erik projected to him.

Well. Perhaps Charles had been thinking a bit too loudly.

He got dressed and filtered through the minds surrounding him, quickly hearing that he was to head to the small conference room on the base. Even with the chairs removed, the room was cramped with all of the X-Men and several other mutants who’d been held on Genosha shoved in. Erik was standing at the head of the wooden table with a miraculously empty spot next to him. He waved Charles over. “Thank you, Charles, for being on time for once.”

“Well, you threatened me so nicely, I felt obligated.” Someone had found tea packets and a kettle somewhere on the base, and Alex handed him a mug. He muttered his gratitude, taking a long drink and accidentally making a less-than-appropriate noise when he did. Oh well. “Right,” Charles said, gesturing for Sean to hand him a notebook and someone else passed a pen into his hand. “Well . . . let’s just get started.”

* * *

“Now, I’m certain that if I get in touch with my family’s old lawyer and banker then I can move my money somewhere the United States government can’t touch it. It’s enough to hold us through for a while, buy supplies while we’re getting started, but I’ll need someone trustworthy who’s not directly affiliated with any of us to make purchases through, just in case anyone gets suspicious. Regardless, I firmly believe our main priority right now should be infrastructure. Start setting up farms and houses, stocking the infirmary, and upgrading the water and electrical grids—” Charles stopped in the middle of his sentence, a vague sense of unease building in the back of his head. He sought the feeling out and pinpointed it to a group of minds on the southern beach, looking out on the ocean.

There was a boat.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to put this on hold,” Charles said faintly, dropping his pen. “We need to get down to the beach. Someone is coming.”

“Who?” Erik asks, eyes darkening as the undercurrent of happiness and excitement that had been running through his head all day vanished, replaced by cold will and strength.

“I’m not sure. We have to assume it’s not good. There’s a boat approaching the southern beach, _now_.” More mutants were gathering there out of a combination of curiosity, wariness, and outright fear. Already, most of them were ready to fight. Charles felt his throat tighten. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did . . .

He felt out the minds. One of them belonged to a middle-aged woman with advanced senses and durability. Charles stationed himself in her head, seeing through her far-sighted eyes. He frowned. “Strange. It doesn’t _look_ like military.” In fact, from what he could tell the boat was small, large enough to not get thrashed by the rolling ocean waves, but not much more. That made him feel better. It wasn’t a warship, at least. Still . . . “Let’s go.”

They ran the whole way, encountering several people on their way to get them and arriving to see that nearly everyone on the island had already beaten them there. Erik went straight to the front, fixing his steely gaze on the approaching boat. “What do we know?”

A dark-skinned man with purple eyes and levitation powers stepped forward, saying, “I was patrolling the shore like you said we should, and saw the boat start to get close. At first, I just got the others down here. I thought maybe it was a fishing boat — it doesn’t look like much — but then it started getting closer.”

In fact, the small ship was nearly to shore now, close enough that they could see a passenger. A woman, bronze-skinned with black hair in a long, dark blue beach dress, staring directly at them.

Erik flexed his hand, feeling for the metal of the boat and any pieces of jewelry or equipment the others had. “I need five people to take the children inland. Everyone else, get ready for a fight. We don’t know who they are.”

The boat hadn’t quite reached sand when the woman jumped down from its deck, wading through hip-deep water. Her dress floated in the water. She raised her hands over her head, palms-out placatingly. When she was close enough to be heard, she said, “I did not come to fight! I am a mutant, like you. And I am here to help.”

Charles and Erik glanced at each other. It was strange, obviously. Now that she was closer, neither of them recognized the woman. Yet she claimed to be a mutant. Telepathic abilities, perhaps? Some sort of precognition or perception?

She looked at Charles. Large eyes stared at him as though she _knew_ him, as though they were old friends who’d known each other for years and she’d popped by for an afternoon tea. “I invite you to look into my head, Charles. Then I’ll explain.”

He stared at her. Normally, he didn’t hesitate before peeking into someone’s head, but the fact that she _knew_ — her _confidence_ — was worrying.

“Do it, Charles,” Erik said shortly, levitating a dozen coins menacingly. Charles swallowed before nodding. He dove into the woman’s mind.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Because this was like nothing he’d ever known. This was a hurricane with no eye in sight. This was like trying to grab hold of a ball of lightning. This was — he didn’t know what it was. He tried to reach out, to find _something_ he could grab hold of—

Suddenly, it was as though he was being yanked firmly into place, the mental maelstrom locked behind some sort of door, just outside and ready to strike. The woman’s thoughts were apologetic. _I’m sorry, Professor. I’m given to understand that my thoughts are . . . confusing._

Charles huffed. _Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it._ He pushed on the boundaries surrounding them. No, not a door, nowhere near that solid.

_I am a mutant though. You know me as Phoebe. You should be able to tell._

_I can._ He didn’t doubt her in the slightest. He’d never met a mind like this, but certainly not in a human. No, this was new. This was . . . well, mutation. _What is your ability exactly?_

 _I experience time differently from you. Non-linearly. I know my past, present, and future; they are one and the same. I knew long ago that I had to come here today. To find you._ There was a surety to her tone, but more than that, a sort of dreamy serenity. _I am glad to finally be here._

_You’ll forgive me if I reserve judgment for the time being._

_Yes, of course._ A moment passed in silence. Charles was still recovering from the mental onslaught when she said, _I think you should talk to Erik. He looks very much as though he wants to murder me horribly._

Surprised, Charles looked around, remembering that they were surrounded by others. Erik had a thunderous expression. His hand was tensed, fingers pointed towards the ground. All the metal on the beach seemed to be humming, alive with his power, ready to do as commanded.

“Phoebe here is a mutant, Erik. She says she means to help us,” Charles said. “And I believe her.”

It took a moment for Erik to relax. Normally he didn’t hesitate to trust a fellow mutant, but they hadn’t exactly expected visitors, and everyone was tense.

Phoebe seemed unperturbed. When she turned to face the metallokinetic, it was with a smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly, Erik. I’ve known I would for a long time, but knowing does not compare to doing.”

Erik eyed her, suspiciously, curiously. “You can see the future.”

Phoebe considered it before shrugging. “My own future. And it’s more complicated than that. But in a manner of speaking, yes. I knew I would come here, and I knew it had to be today.” Her eyes darkened. “And I’m sorry our first meeting must go like this. But you must know, people are coming to attack us. And they’re on their way now.”  
  



	3. Teleportation

“ _Who_ is coming here?”

Even if Phoebe hadn’t already known Erik was going to be the one to say that, it wouldn’t have surprised her. He was always both offense and defense, suspicious and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. She knew he was already prepared for the fight to come. Her answer was ready for him. “A blockade of ships from a multitude of countries. It appears that the humans occupying Genosha before you arrived were not friendless. Many of them were former government officials. I know at least one used to be with SHIELD.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. We won’t know for certain, but the suspicion is that one of them managed to send out a message to their contacts before the freed mutants killed them all.” She looked to Charles. “They know about mutants.”

Charles swore his heart stopped for a split-second before he forced himself back into awareness. “Who all knows?”

“By now? About every major world power.” She stepped forward, grabbing his hand. “And they know that Genosha has about two hundred previously enslaved, and currently quite upset ones.”

Erik cursed under his breath. Behind them, the gathered mutants spoke or shouted amongst themselves, quickly realizing the danger they were in. Erik rounded on them, not losing a beat. “I want three people patrolling every half-mile of the island’s perimeter. Everyone with defensive or offensive abilities needs to be ready to fight. If you don’t have powers that are useful in a fight, you may help guard the children at the base. And you—” he pointed to Phoebe, “—are coming with us.” He started to turn from the water.

“Erik,” Phoebe said quietly, and everyone must have noticed how familiar she was so quickly. “You are about to be angry with me, but my actions were entirely necessary.”

He stared at her. “What _now_?”

And that was when Charles felt two familiar minds hidden on the boat.

He immediately raised a hand to his temple, grabbing Erik’s arm and pulling him back. “Hellfire. Two on the boat.”

Erik’s grey eyes sharpened; he flexed his hand, and in seconds, the boat was falling apart, welded planes of metal and screws and bolts torn from each other to reveal those hiding inside.

Everyone stared at those who emerged. When he saw that Shaw was not among them, something inside Erik’s chest loosened. No, he could not be there, he was dead, Erik had killed him . . .

That did not stop _Herr Doktor_ from haunting his dreams.

But he could not touch the living. No, it was Azazel and Angel on the beach, not Shaw, not Schmidt. His ghosts would not be allowed to touch those Erik had sworn to protect.

He ripped what was left of the boat into long strips of metal, enough to twist and wrap around each of them. The sad remnants of the Hellfire Club didn’t resist, though he heard them suck in breaths when the metal bound closer, squeezing their frail skin and organs. He wondered how tight he would have to make it before they would pop.

Both of them fell to their knees in the sand, struggling to breathe. Dark eyes looked up at Charles, Angel silently pleading with him even as the metal bands started to choke her. She squeaked out a few, painful words. “Read my mind.” Her face flushed red with blood as she flinched at the tightening bonds. “Won’t try . . . to keep you out . . .”

Charles glanced at Erik, who clearly wasn’t buying it. He stepped forward, setting a hand on the other man’s arm. “Let me see.”

Erik didn’t try to look at him. “We can’t trust them.”

“I _don’t_. But we don’t know why they’re here or what information they have. They could be useful.”

Erik curled his lip, but didn’t protest further, unwinding the metal coils _just_ enough so they could breathe comfortably, if that. Angel slumped forward slightly before letting out a breath of relief. She raised her eyes to Charles and nodded, beckoning him inside. He followed.

Angel Salvadore’s mind was as he remembered: twisting thoughts and memories, slippery and difficult to catch hold of. It took him a few moments to start properly navigating her thoughts. But he’d been a telepath for a long time, and he knew what he was doing. He started sorting through the different things floating around. Here were her memories of childhood, school, the club, the X-Men, Shaw, all of them dark and clouded by emotion. He did not have to go far to find what she wanted him to see.

_The past year and a half had been busy for the X-Men, but for the remnants of the Hellfire Club, it was a time of confusion, of scrambling from place to place with no real plan in mind. There was no plan for if Shaw died, no leader ready to take his place. Normally Emma would have been the most likely candidate, but the CIA had her and they weren’t taking their chances on a rescue before licking their wounds. No, they’d keep their head low for the time being and wait for their chance (at what? they didn’t know)._

_Except the CIA still had all the information that Charles had been able to pry out of Emma’s head. There were no more safe houses, no allies to turn to, nowhere to go. They split up for a while, hoping not to draw attention . . . but then Riptide had disappeared and Azazel was almost murdered (he’d never really been able to hide, he’d admitted to her one night, still-remembered days as a child locked inside a small room with only his parents’ hawk-like eyes looking upon him, loving, but fearful of his demonic appearance and scared for him). They stuck together after that, hopping from place to place. Except now they had none of Shaw’s resources, nor Emma’s powers to shield them. They tried to find out what happened to Riptide. They never did._

_Those days would seem like a pleasant dream compared to what came next. They were hiding out in Louisiana at the time, a tiny house near swampland that rested in an otherwise abandoned area. The attack came when they were asleep, exhausted from running with no goal in sight. Two dozen humans surrounded the building and broke in with hardly a sound, shooting the mutants with tranquilizers almost before they could wake up. Oh, they fought of course. They still had their powers, and it took the drugs a few moments to kick in. Angel left some screaming on the floor as their limbs dissolved while Azazel teleported behind the group slit the throats of two of them. But whoever they were, they’d known what they were walking into. Azazel was unconscious before he could try to escape, and Angel’s wings still hadn’t recovered from Cuba. The fight did not take long._

_The following months were characterized by a few simple activities. Sleeping, waking, two square meals, and long hours of “experimentation”. Here, Angel’s mind tried to shy away — not to hide from Charles, but because if she had to look back on that, she would start shaking and wouldn’t stop, and she could not afford to let them see her weak, had never been allowed weakness. Charles knew that if he made her pull off the leather gloves she wore now, he would find one hand had only three fingers remaining. If he looked deeper into her head, he would see just how merciful that was compared to the days they cut her open and poked around. She didn’t know what they found. She didn’t want to. And there were other things, things she might not even know were there anymore she’d shoved them so far down, remembered only in the particular gleam of a security guard’s eyes or the way one of the surgeons might grip her arm too hard. Charles left those buried for her sake._

_She’d long thought them as good as dead when the woman came. Phoebe, she introduced herself cheerily when removing the muzzle from Angel’s face. Her powers weren’t spectacular in the way Azazel’s were or Shaw’s had been, but she seemed to know all the codes she needed, where each camera was, and every move the security guards were going to make before they made it, and it was obvious that she knew the floor plan and exactly where to go. This was enough to get her in. Once she’d found them, even in their weakened state, the three together were enough to get out._

_They slept through the first day of their freedom, exhausted minds and bodies finally giving out. When they woke, Phoebe was ready to go with a sparsely packed car. They asked where exactly she thought they were going; she simply said they were headed to a safe place for mutants, and if that sounded appealing then they should hurry up and get in._

_Both of them had worn themselves out the day before. Azazel’s left eye wasn’t functioning properly, he was only just coming out of the tranquilizer-induced daze, and he’d exhausted his teleportation abilities. It would be months or even years before Angel’s wings grew back enough to fly properly, if they ever did. They got in without further questions, and slept until they made it to the pitifully small boat._

_They’d been on the boat more than a day when Azazel, always the more certain of the two, bit the bullet and asked Phoebe exactly where they were going. She replied that it was a small island northeast of Madagascar . . . and told them exactly who they would find there._

_There’d been an argument of course, but by that point there was no turning back. And Charles Xavier was merciful, wasn’t he? He hadn’t allowed Erik to crush Emma while she was in her hard but brittle diamond form, and he’d been the one to keep the metallokinetic from destroying the ships of humans in Cuba. Even after Angel left, what they’d really wanted was for her to come back. They hadn’t killed her when she’d been downed on the beach with her wings singed. There’d been a time where they would have scoffed at the idea of asking for sanctuary, would have tried to make her own solution, find her own way out. Now, Angel would happily throw herself on their mercy as long as it meant the ones holding them were mutants and not humans itching to find out what made them different, no matter the cost. No, the Professor wouldn’t let anything like that happen. He would be good. He would be merciful._

_You will be, won’t you Professor?_

It was that last question that made him falter as he extracted himself from her mind. Because it was _genuine_. There was no mocking tone, no derisive nicknames. She was scared they would kill them or force them from the island, but she was asking because the alternative was worse. The former Hellfire Club members were dangerous, murderous, _genocidal_ under Shaw . . . but he could at least give them a safe prison.

“There are cells,” Charles said, choking slightly on his words, his throat painfully dry. “On the north shore. Safe for holding mutants, and they’ll be away from most of the conflict if it happens.” He paused before adding, “I don’t think we have to be too worried right now, but if you think they need guards, I’m sure we can spare a few people.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, Erik was shaking his head, eyes thunderous. “You _can’t_ be serious, Charles.”

“I’m not suggesting we forgive them,” Charles said snappishly, having gone far too deep into too many people’s minds already and it still wasn’t noon. “But are you suggesting we kill them without a trial? Turn away mutants running from capture and experimentation?” And, when Erik didn’t budge, he mentally added, _You’re the one who almost killed hundreds of humans that day. I stopped you; I forgave you. Now you want to suggest they don’t deserve a chance?_

 _That’s different_ , Erik grumbled back. But he slowly relented, lowering his hand and nodding to Raven behind them. “Get ten people and take them to their cells. If they try anything, kill them.” The last part made a pang go through Erik — he vehemently hated the idea of killing _any_ mutant, even as he acknowledged the necessity. But he stood firm. Raven did as he said, taking Alex and Sean along with the small force as they directed the pathetic remnants of the Hellfire Group to the northern shore, eyeing them suspiciously the entire time.

Finally, Erik turned to face Phoebe a final time. “ _Now_ you’re going to tell us what you know.”

* * *

“There are approximately one hundred to one hundred and twenty ships on their way,” Phoebe said calmly, looking down at the bare-bones map of Genosha. “Countries on both sides of the Cold War will be represented, as well as others. I can write a list if necessary.” She would, but only later when Erik decided they needed to keep an eye on their enemies. Charles would not be involved in this decision. “They’ll surround the island, but the majority will strike on the Bluewater and Whitesand—” She paused, frowning in momentary confusion. “Sorry, the west and south beaches. They’ll have missiles, guns, bombs, the works. Tens of thousands of humans altogether.”

Erik stood behind her, thinking. “We need an exact count of how many people on the island are in fighting condition. We’ll fortify the beaches with a third of forces each, and split the rest on the east and north. If there’s going to be a fight, we should try to evacuate as many children as we can. Get the Blackbird, try to get them to the Mansion.”

“The superior option would be to avoid a fight.”

Everyone stopped to look at the latest addition to their group. Even Charles blinked in surprise. Erik narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like that Charles seemed to have a difficult time reading her. He was caught between his own paranoia, certain that the humans were on their way to destroy them all (and entirely correct), and a suspicious part of him that wanted to lock Phoebe in a dark room somewhere until he was certain she was telling the truth.

“I hate to be the one to say this,” Charles began, “but if they’re intent on firing on us, I don’t see that happening— _Erik_ , don’t be smug right now, it’s not charming.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Erik said innocently.

“Not out loud.”

Phoebe smiled watching them before returning her attention to the topic at hand. “The United Nations has called an emergency meeting for strategies on how to deal with the . . . ‘mutant threat’.” She paused for a moment as Erik made an angry, half-growling noise as Charles watched him and the others muttered amongst themselves. “The World Security Council will be there, along with a few SHIELD representatives. They have the authority to force other countries to lower their weapons. If we move quickly, we can attempt to convince them to call off the attack.”

Erik arched a brow. “Your plan is to _ask them nicely?_ ”

“I’m not above sprinkling in threats.”

“Oh, alright.”

“It’s not a bad idea, actually,” Charles said, nodding. “I can go, get into their heads and convince them. Problem solved.”

“I’m afraid, Charles,” Phoebe said gently, “this would only cause more difficulty in the long run. You can change their minds, perhaps even forever, but when they go home and tell their Presidents and Prime Ministers and Dictators and Kings what you say, it is not exactly helpful for them to report that the telepath thought it was a great idea that the dangerous mutants all be left alone.”

“. . . Yes, well, when you put it like _that_ , anything can sound bad.”

Phoebe nodded, not seeming at all perturbed by the future awaiting them as she continued. “It will not do to convince them for a moment, only to turn around and find bigger weapons on our doorstep. If we want peace and freedom, it’s not enough to have it given to us on a whim.”

“What’s given can be taken away,” Erik said slowly, with a dark look in his eyes that the others recognized from that day in Cuba. “If we want it, we have to take it.”

“You’re very negative, Erik,” Phoebe said brightly. “You’re right, but don’t take that as validation.”

Charles was pretty sure he only heard one part of that.

“Very well,” Charles said, leaning forward on the table. “When do I leave.”

“What?” Erik demanded.

“Immediately,” Phoebe said, not really paying attention to the second man. “If you think Azazel is trustworthy enough, I know he can get us there in one jump. If you don’t . . . I am not adverse to you putting some of the more insidious effects of your powers to use.”

“We’ll have to make do, I suppose.”

“Am I going _fucking insane_ , or is everyone just acting like it’s a perfectly sane idea to send Charles alone into a pit of vipers?!”

Phoebe couldn’t help it. She chuckled.

When everyone stared at her, she shook her head, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I am very happy to be here, is all.”

Erik, never blinking or tearing his eyes from her, said, “I see no reason Charles should leave with only a former Hellfire member we’ve only _just_ decided not to immediately executed, and a half-mad woman whose mind he can’t read properly.” He continued to stare Phoebe down, growing more and more agitated by her serene smile, before turning his attention to Charles.

The telepath stared at him, stuck between wanting to assure Erik and being irritated at his ( _completely unnecessary_ ) over-protectiveness. “Because I can tell what will convince them and what won’t, what they’re most receptive to and what will make them shut down. Because between the two of us, I’m the diplomat and you know it. Because you need to be _here_ , shoring up defenses in case it’s not enough and the attack goes through. Because I am _not_ , in fact, an infant in need of a dozen carers and more bodyguards.” His eyes softened as he felt the honest fear and tension roiling beneath the surface of Erik’s mind, driving him insane with possibilities of all the horrific things he wouldn’t be able to protect Charles from the moment they were separated. His next words were kinder. “Because I am a very talented telepath who can take care of myself and you too.”

Erik looked at Charles. Charles looked back.

The thing about Erik was that Charles didn’t _need_ to use any of his mental tricks with him, nor did he want to. Erik trusted him enough to know he was always in control of his own mind. And he trusted Charles enough to believe he knew what he was doing, and would fight with everything he had to protect those under his care. Even if it was a different fight that Erik envisioned.

No one was surprised when he gave in.

* * *

It was with much trepidation that Charles, Erik, Raven, Phoebe, and Azazel stood in front of the base. Charles fiddled with his tie more than once, feeling awkward and hot in the suit after the past week or so of looser, island-appropriate outfits. He wondered if the feeling would stick once he came back to Genosha.

_**If** I come back to Genosha._

Despite his own fears, he smiled as he hugged Raven and Erik goodbye, careful to keep the latter gesture to an appropriate maximum for close male friends. Still, he could not keep his hand from lingering over Erik’s as the other man pulled away. Worries were bubbling away in Erik’s heads, ones he knew he wouldn’t be able to quell once he set out on this insane mission. He pushed the thought down. He and Erik both needed to be strong now. If not for themselves, then for the two hundred people depending on them.

Erik’s grey eyes flickered to Azazel, who stood behind them in stoic silence, before returning to his partner. Charles answered the question before Erik could ask. “I’ve looked into his mind. He wants to . . .” Redeem himself? Find peace? Escape his past? Escape the _consequences?_ There was a bit of truth in all of it. “I don’t think he’ll hurt me. And if all else fails,” he tapped his temple, “I’ve got it.”

Erik nodded, though he didn’t really seem reassured. Charles did his best to smile. “Relax,” he said softly, standing far enough away from the others that only Erik heard him. “Everything will be alright.”

Erik laughed harshly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Charles shook his head like an exasperated teacher. “Come now, Erik. You know I don’t have many other plays.”

Erik made a weak attempt at a smile. “I just . . .” He stopped, breath caught in his throat. Even when they weren’t surrounded by people, he had trouble saying the words. “I love you,” he finally whispered, voice so quiet he wondered if Charles even heard him. He hated how difficult it was for him to say it — he could probably count the number of times he’d done so since meeting Charles on two hands — but he didn’t know how to fix it. It had been months after he acknowledged his feelings before he’d spoken them. The first time he said it out loud, it had been painful. For so long, he’d been too scared to even think of it. The moment he admitted he loved Charles was the moment that he became something that could be taken away. No longer a strength, but a weakness, maybe the biggest one he’d ever had. He’d feared that the moment Charles became _his_ , he would lose him. Silly, he knew. There was always a way for him to lose.

Charles just smiled, brushing his fingers over Erik’s. His hands were warm and soft in their knowledge, as though he could wash away all of Erik’s fears with just this simple touch, and maybe he could. “I know.” He wished he could lean up and kiss Erik properly despite the people around them. He didn’t try. “I love you too.”  
  



	4. Telepathic Voice Projection

“Is the area secure?”

Maria Hill nodded, alert eyes darting around the United Nations Security Council Chamber. “So far, sir.”

Of course, Fury didn’t relax. He never did, continuing to scope out every inch of the room and the Security Council members. He had yet to take his own seat at the conference table alongside the representative from the WSC. International press members were already filling the bright red seats in the back, cameras, lights, and microphones in the process of being hurriedly set up. In his opinion, matters of international security shouldn’t be recorded or televised . . . but they hadn’t asked for his opinion.

He scratched the edge of his eyepatch, a mindless motion he would have denied if asked about. “ _Mutants_ ,” he muttered. How he longed for the days when super-soldiers seemed like a fantasy. “Wasn’t the CIA doing something with them a while back?”

Maria nodded. “In sixty-two. But they were quiet about it and we didn’t dig any deeper at the time. When I set someone to ask them about it two days ago, no one knew anything and any records had been destroyed.”

“So they’re hiding something.” It would save everyone so much time if people stopped trying to hide things from him.

“Maybe.” She was utterly toneless as she spoke, as much a sign that something was strange as anything else. “But apparently they really seemed to believe it. Didn’t act like they were hiding, just . . . confused.”

His good eye flicked over to her. “You think their minds were tampered with?”

She shrugged. “Information from the Genosha base was scattered. We probably know a tenth of what went on there, if that. Who knows what kind of things these people can do?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

He did sit down eventually, if only because everyone else would expect him to, even though it meant leaving his back exposed to the dozens of people pressed inside. Maria was there at least, and she was the next best thing, so there was no point arguing for now. He’d save that for the meeting itself—

As soon as he thought it and just as someone was walking up to the center of the room to speak, something red and black flashed and whirled, right in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped table and all the people around it. When it was gone, three people stood, a vaguely-sick looking man and woman . . .

. . . and another man with cherry-red skin and a tail.

In an instant, everyone in the room was on their feet. Fury’s hand went to the gun at his side out of instinct more than thought. From the corner of his eye, he saw Maria do the same.

He’d raised his gun and had a finger on the trigger when he froze.

 _Literally_ , froze. His hands hovered uselessly in the air. He could still feel the gun, but it seemed vague and distant, his body light, almost weightless. He was pretty sure someone could have knocked him over with their pinky finger. From where he was standing, everyone except the three people in the middle was as still as him.

 _Oh, this can NOT be how I die, you motherf_ —

“Sorry!” One of the men said. _Not_ the one who literally looked like Satan, but the deceptively innocent-seeming young man in the grey-and-blue suit who was holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m aware that you’re all upset, but this _is_ something of an emergency.” He folded his hands in front of him, looking around. His polite voice was extremely _British_ , of all things, and his face was surprisingly soft-looking. He didn’t exactly seem like the kind of person you would expect to hold the United Nations Security Council hostage.

“Everyone’s here, yes?” He seemed to mutter something under his breath— _Is this guy counting?_ “Yes! Excellent, let’s start then.” He looked around. “Is there a podium? I feel somewhat awkward just standing here— yes, thank you Azazel, please bring it over. Wonderful.” He stood behind the podium, flanked on either side by his companions. The dark-haired, human- _seeming_ woman appeared to have recovered from her disgruntled state and now had a cheery, dream-like expression on her face. The demon scowled at them, but otherwise didn’t do anything.

The British man folded his hands together and straightened his back. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

_Like we have a choice._

“I am Professor Charles Xavier. I am a mutant. I am the Voice of Genosha, and I will speak for my people.”

* * *

Erik felt the boats before he saw them.

Thousands of tons of metal, cutting through the ocean like a knife, each ship teeming with crewmen and missiles and guns and other nasty things that Charles would frown at.

_Charles._

Erik could admit to himself that he was twitchy from his beloved telepath’s absence, even if he would fiercely deny it if someone else asked. They’d hardly been apart for more than a day in the past two years, and never so far away. To think that when they'd first met, he’d told the telepath to stay out of his mind. Now he missed it, the soothing feel of Charles’s mind reaching out to his own, the knowledge that he was never alone. He’d never thought he would feel anxious from _not_ having someone else in his head . . .

He let out a quiet breath of relief when he saw Raven approach, distracting him from his thoughts. She was running, blue feet kicking up tufts of grass, and breathing heavily by the time she stopped. “They’re here.” She pointed out over the horizon. They were standing on what Phoebe had called the “Breakshore”, a tall cliff overlooking the ocean. Below them, the water was laden with hundreds of huge, knife-sharp rocks, hidden by the waves, but no less deadly for it. “One of our fliers, she said—”

“I know,” Erik cut her off. “I can feel them coming.” He paused, tilting his head. “Less than two hours out, I’d say.”

Raven’s scales shimmered, her fists clenching and unclenching. “Everyone’s asking what do to do.”

Erik knew what he should tell them. Charles had already said what he thought should be done: take up a defensive stance, wait for him to convince them, hope they don’t attack before then, and fight only if there was no other choice.

He looked down, pulling out a small piece of paper that Phoebe had silently pressed into his hand before leaving. They weren’t instructions exactly, but rather, several lines of coordinates, addresses, countries. On the other side of the paper was a symbol that he recognized after thinking about it.

_Radiation._

He looked out over the horizon once more. Charles should have stayed behind himself if he wanted it done peacefully.

Erik turned around sharply, setting his back to the water and headed for the beach, Raven at his side. “Find me any mutant with teleportation, portalling, flying, telepathic, shapeshifting, or manipulation powers, any at all. And yes, you’re included in that. The rest need to be ready to defend the beaches, but . . .” Thoughtlessly, he reached out for the gentle touch of Charles’s mind in his, that soft, glowing warmth. He found nothing. “It’s time to start thinking of a plan B.”

* * *

“Beginning approximately two years ago, a loosely-banded group of criminals and former members of various intelligence agencies formed and seized control of a small island in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa and a few hundred miles northeast of Madagascar. We know that at least one of these people was a former member of the CIA who had knowledge of a short-lived division within the CIA wherein mutants were recruited in an effort to defeat a threat to world safety and security, courtesy of a man known as Sebastian Shaw. After their mission succeeded, the group was disbanded and separated from the U.S. government.

“We believe that this CIA agent used information gathered from and about the mutant division to locate and capture other members of our kind, who were then transported to the island of Genosha. Within two years, this came to include two-hundred and thirty eight people, ranging from the ages of six to seventy-four. Once on Genosha, another mutant known only as Mastermind who was working with the human group used methods of mind control to prevent them from using their abilities outside of carefully-worded orders.” He carefully left out the fact that no one knew where Mastermind had disappeared to. _No need to give them any ideas_ , a voice suspiciously like Erik’s whispered in his head. “The mutants were then used as slave labor for the island’s mines.” He knew that a fair few of his people considered it downright insulting that they hadn’t even been used for anything more interesting than copper and iron mines. Those who hadn’t blocked the memories out completely, at least.

“Over the few week, the former CIA division became aware of the disappearance of mutants around the world and tracked them to Genosha. Nine days ago, the Genoshan mutants were freed and the human forces died in the resulting conflict.” And that hurt to think about, that he hadn’t been allowed to save a single one of them, even as he knew that they didn’t deserve it in the slightest. “Yesterday, all of the mutants of Genosha — both those who were being held on the island as forced labor, and their liberators — took a vote and unanimously agreed to declare Genosha an independent nation, lead and occupied by mutants. I was elected as one of two of our country’s leaders, formally titled as the Voice of Genosha. The other is Erik Lehnsherr, Imperator of Genosha.”

Charles paused, looking around at the staring, closed-off faces surrounding him. The emotions swirling around the room were almost suffocating — confusion, disbelief, fear. He pushed through.

“Mutants are caused by a single mutation resulting in what I have named the X-Gene. Some are apparent at birth, while others manifest in childhood, adolescence, or during a traumatic experience. At the moment, it appears to be randomly and unpredictably inherited. However, given our currently known rate of mutation, I predict that there will be more than one million mutants within three generations. There is no way to prevent this. Even now, they could be your children and grandchildren. You will walk by them on the street, sit down to dinner with them, attend their weddings and birthday parties. Maybe you already have without knowing it. I don’t say this to scare you, but merely to tell you that we have _peacefully_ lived amongst you for years. We are not your enemies.

“We have only three demands: First, you must accept the island of Genosha as a sovereign nation-state. We shall have our own government and authorities, and we will not answer to the authority of another country, nor will we be annexed. Second, we want to become full-fledged members of the United Nations. I understand that there is a process for this; we shall happily undergo it. Third: All nations who have sent warships to Genosha must call them back without a fight, _immediately_. We do not want to fight. We never have. But we will defend ourselves if we have to.”

Charles leaned forward on his arms slightly with a placating smile, seeming all the world like a young, beloved professor and not the leader of an infant country that had basically just given the rest of the planet an ultimatum. “So. Any questions?”  
  



	5. Self-Detonation

“If you are _us_ , then be _with us. Come home._ ”

— Magneto; House of X (2019) #5

When Erik felt the ships were close enough, he nodded to the woman standing a few feet to his side. “Now.” He lifted himself into the sky, watching as the mutants went to their work. The warships were visible then, hulking mounds of grey and black and blue on the sunny horizon.

For a moment, it seemed as though nothing would happen.

The water stilled. The ocean seemed to pause, almost confused. Then, it started pulling back, water abandoning the shore. Waves built to impossible heights, towering high above the people on the beach. Soon, Erik had to levitate higher to avoid them brushing against his feet. The waves crashed into each other in their race backwards, rolling over and over, higher and higher.

Erik felt it when the ships were forced to change direction. A moment ago, they’d been deliberately spread out, heading for the south and east borders in equal measure. Now, they were forced to bunch together as the ocean turned against them, millions of pounds of water flowing and pounding and writhing against the metal. Some of them tried to push back, to forge ahead as planned, and they were powerful enough to do so. Steel cut through the water like a knife.

Erik stretched his arms out in front of him, taking a deep breath. He gathered all his strength before closing his hands into fists, wrapping his senses around the ships that had managed to push through. When they were as much a part of him as his own hands, he _pulled_ , holding them in place.

His muscles spasmed, the force of the effort hitting him like a blow to the spine, shaking his entire body. Thousands of tons of metal, straining against his control as the human crews tried to figure out what was wrong, to keep moving. He refused. His muscles strained with the effort, tightening, threatening to burst and rupture.

Erik pushed on. When his control faltered, he drew forth memories of Shaw’s torture, of his parents’ deaths. When that wasn’t enough, he thought about nights huddled at his mother’s foot as she sang lullabies and told him stories no one knew the origin of anymore. He thought of Charles, his enduring hope and optimism, the light in his blue eyes, the way his mind seemed to sing when Erik kissed him. The men on the ships were only human, weak, temporary. They were not worthy of his anger. They would not take his happiness.

Slowly, he herded the ships together, forcing the ones that had managed to resit the water ( _but not him, never him_ ) into a small cluster as the waves and ocean handled the rest. It hurt. It hurt the way running for your life did, mile after on burning muscles and fire-fueled veins. He knew the feeling and he didn’t care. He knew pain. He knew that this type of pain was temporary, a thing of the body. But he was more than his own body. He was towering plates of steel and iron rivets and copper wires. He knew he could control the ships because they were a part of him and he of them. He didn’t _ask_ them to obey; you do not ask your heart to beat or lungs to breathe. He told them what to do and they listened.

When all of the human ships were huddled together closely enough, the waters suddenly fell still. There was not a wind in the air, not a flicker of movement in the sea. Then—

He heard others gasp around and below him on the sand when great walls of water shot out from the ocean, easily ten stories tall, far larger than the ships they surrounded. And surround them they did, forming a tight circle around the armada. When some of them tried to move before the water could fully close-in, Erik stretched his powers tighter, refusing to give an inch.

In only a few minutes, they were trapped. Erik waited for any sign of movement or attempt to fire a weapon. There was none.

Allowing himself a small sigh of relief, he sunk back down to the ground, stumbling slightly when he was back on land. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, but his ears were ringing too loud for him to tell who. He vaguely recognized the dark blue face of the person who came to stand beside him. Raven set one of his arms over her shoulder and helped him walk forward until they were in the center of a large group of mutants. When people started to ask if he was alright, he waved them off. “Don’t worry about me,” he said insistently, loudly repeating himself when he realized he was muttering. His eyes sought out the two mutants as tired as him. “Can you hold this?”

Aquamarine and Richter were twins who’d been on their way to college in California when they were kidnapped at an airport. Now, Aqua’s hydrokinesis and her brother’s seismic control had whipped the waves into obedience. Now, both of them sat in the sand as they kept their eyes on the oceanic fortress.

The sister nodded, holding her head afterward as though the simple gesture had given her a migraine. “I think we can do this for an hour or so,” Aquamarine said, though she looked like she’d rather eat her own tongue than say that. “We’ll buy Charles time.”

“Yeah.” Richter nodded, immediately repeating his sister’s pained expression. “And, worse comes to worst and everything goes south . . .” He stretched an arm up and brought it down on the air, making a crashing noise with his mouth. It was possible he was light-headed.

Still, Erik had to admit that the idea of just wiping out the ships with a reverse-tsunami was incredibly satisfying. “Hold onto that idea.”

Erik was coordinating the remainder of their defense when Azazel appeared beside him.

Though he hadn’t been expecting the other mutant’s return so fast, Erik didn’t let his surprise show, even as Raven jumped half a foot back at how sudden it was. He turned to face the teleporter impassively, waiting for him to speak.

Azazel’s scarred face was grim. “Well, your Professor wasn’t dead when I left. But the outlook is not good. They’re refusing to negotiate.”

Erik nodded as though this was what he’d expected. “They fear us.” He thought of Charles’s violently bright eyes, his soft smile and the gentle touch of his mind. “They should.”

He turned to Raven. “Get our teams in position. I’ll send Azazel to alert you if we have to go through with it.” To the devilish mutant, he asked, “You _are_ still strong enough to go to the UN and back here, correct?”

It was clear to him that Azazel was tired, both from the months of capture he’d gone through and transporting all the way to New York and back in such a short time. He wasn’t standing as straight as he should have been, and his pointed tail drooped close to the sand as he struggled to hold his eyes open. It didn’t keep him from smiling. “Obviously.”

* * *

Charles was seriously considering putting the entire security council to sleep for five minutes, just so he could have a break from the intense (and frankly, _rude_ ) questioning, when Azazel returned with Erik in tow.

His immediate reaction was relief. Erik was at his side, as he belonged. There was nothing they couldn’t face together.

His second reaction was, _Oh fuck._ “Erik—”

 _Don’t, Charles,_ Erik thought, his mind’s voice ringing clear as a bell through Charles’s head.

And Charles really hated that he had to ask, but, _On a scale of 1 to 10, how likely are you to try to start World War III in the next few minutes?_

 _Strong 7._ Erik was normally anywhere from 2 to 4, so that actually wasn’t as bad as it sounded given the circumstances. _Either way, don’t you think we should present a united front?_

_Not if your idea of “united” is me silently supporting your attempts to single-handedly destroy the human race._

_Well if it goes that way, you can just say you never really liked me._

_No one’s going to believe me. Least of all myself._

_They don’t have to know that._

Their conversation did not take more than a few seconds. By the time they finished, Erik was only halfway across the room. Casually, as though he didn’t even think of what he was doing, he lowered a hand, softly twisting it in the air. The security agents pointing their guns at him struggled to hold on for a few seconds before the weapons were wrenched out of their hands. They hovered listlessly for a moment, almost as though they were confused, before levitating towards their new master. Erik seemed to contemplate them for a moment before flicking his fingers. The guns twirled upside down through the air before falling apart into their various components, bullets suddenly unloaded. Erik cast a wide circle before closing his hands. Quickly, the the most useful parts of the guns began to melt, along with the bullets and several small knives that had joined them. Liquid metal dripped into dozens of small spheres, some of which proceeded to whirl around Erik’s head, others around his chest and waist. He completely ignored the people shouting at him, rather coming to lean against the podium Charles stood behind. The metal shifted position to wrap around Charles as well. “You’re alright?”

The question was as much for those around them as Charles. The telepath shrugged with an easy smile that hid just how much he wanted to grab someone and scream in their face until they saw sense. “I’ve had worse days.” That wasn’t even a lie . . . which really just spoke to how complicated their lives had gotten.

Erik nodded, casting a gaze around the room, eyes landing on each member of the security council in turn, never managing to look at them like they were worthy of any more consideration than a plate of buttered toast, before returning his attention to Charles. “I take it the idealistic route hasn’t borne fruit?”

“. . . I felt like we were getting somewhere.”

Erik arched an elegant brow. “Somewhere good?”

“Eventually.”

Erik scoffed. _We don’t have that kind of time anymore._ New memories floated around the forefront of Erik’s mind. Charles plucked them out, absorbing them into his own thoughts. The huge steel ships that had come so close to surrounding Genosha even as they spoke so casually, each captain preparing to lay waste to their barely-established home and the tired, traumatized mutants occupying it. Through Erik, he felt the heft of the anchors, the smoothness of guns, the awful potential of the bombs and missiles. In his eyes he saw the water prison that they couldn’t hold forever. The thought made him feel faint.

Cautious, he sighed, giving Erik the barest hint of a nod. _Fine. Just . . . try to bring them around **verbally** before you force the issue?_

He felt rather than heard Erik scoff. _Only for you, Charles._

Charles was all too aware of how true that was.

Erik’s hand suddenly snatched up, closing around a small metal ball as the others fell lifelessly to the ground, as though they’d never been floating, had never known Erik’s expert touch. Like some clumsy intern had just dropped a box of them on the floor and somehow figured no one would notice.

Erik was rolling the ball between his fingers — and now was _not_ the time to shiver like that, Charles forcefully reminded himself — when he spoke. “You all seem to be under the somewhat . . . _arrogant_ illusion that you can kill my people and I won’t kill you in return.”

When people immediately opened their mouths to speak, to demand to know who he was and what exactly he thought he was doing, Erik deathly raised his pointer finger. Charles responded almost instinctively, his own hand drawn to his temple as he silenced the surrounding humans, holding them in their seats. The room stilled, and Erik nodded as though he saw nothing wrong with this picture.

“Personally, I don’t see why we shouldn’t kill you all now. We did nothing to you, content to reside quietly forever on our single, tiny island away from the world, yet your leaders felt the need to surround us and now threaten to wipe us out for the crime of existing.” Erik inclined his head. “Very well. Since force is the only language you understand, I’ll indulge you.” His hand flexed, and he sent the metal balls on a wide course around the room, fast as the bullets they were made from, puncturing holes through walls, chairs, and tables before drawing them back just as easily. When he looked out on the room, his eyes were the color of gunmetal.

“I was a child torn from the arms of my mother as my father’s body rotted in a mass grave. I watched as my people had their homes, their lives, their _world_ destroyed. The Nazis broke them down, took away our culture, our identity, everything that made us _us_. I still remember the smell of gas and burning bodies, the taste of it in the air.” A haunted look overtook his face. For a moment, Erik seemed to forget there were other people around at all. “Sometimes I wake up with that taste in my mouth.”

He snapped back to focus, eyes narrowing. “So if you think I’m going to watch it again — see my people rounded up, imprisoned, collared, killed, stripped of their powers and abilities and bodies — know that we are stronger than you, and there is nothing we would not do, no line I won’t cross, to keep that from happening.”

“But . . .” He glanced to his side at Charles. He could tell that the other man wanted to reach out and touch him — a hand intertwined with Erik’s, a gentle touch on his arm, sure fingers brushing through his hair — and he didn’t know whether that was Charles’s emotions leaking into his own, intuition, or outright projection. “We believe it would be better for everyone if this is handled peacefully. So. Let’s negotiate. I assume Charles has already given you our terms?” A quick mental confirmation, more feeling than word. He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Allow me to expand on that: if your countries go through with this — frankly, suicidal — idea to attack Genosha, I will start by killing all of the humans in this room and no one will be able to stop me.”

 _Who says I won’t stop you?_ Charles demanded, shock evident in his tone.

 _I didn’t say you wouldn’t try, Liebling_.

“After that is done—” And it frightened Charles sometimes, just how casual Erik could be about what he considered ‘justice’, “I will send a message to Genosha giving permission to a carefully-selected team of mutants to complete their infiltration of four locations in the United States, Britain and Russia. Not much, but quite enough, I think.”

For a moment, Charles just frowned in confusion. Then he saw Erik’s thoughts.

_Fire. Unending heat. Explosions a thousand thousand times more powerful than the missiles in Cuba would have been. Death too fast to be painful._

Charles felt his blood turned to ice. _You wouldn’t._

When he responded, Erik’s tone was almost joking. _It’s the Cold War, Charles. Mutually assured destruction is the language of civilized men._ As Charles stood still, frozen in place, Erik’s eyes darkened. _Show them._

Reluctantly, more out of fear for the humans around them than to listen to Erik, he did so. Military bases, cities, _countries_ , he showed them all as nothing but embers and ash. And fear, he let them feel his own fear. That it would all end exactly as Shaw had wanted, the planet irradiated and the majority of both species dead or forced to the edge of existence. And Erik, never knowing when to stop.

He often feared that.

Charles didn’t have to look at their faces to see that they got the message. He felt it, dread a slow-moving sludge in their veins.

Erik’s voice thrummed with authority — and, under that, victory. “We are the next generation of humanity, the inheritors of the Earth. You cannot wish us away. You cannot ignore us. If you attack us, it will be at your own expense. Because we will defend ourselves. I take no joy in this. But if it’s a choice between war and enslavement — torture — experimentation — _extinction_ — then we will fight and we will _win_.”

Almost unwillingly, he looked at Charles, and something in him seemed to soften. “. . . but the whole world will be worse for it.”

Erik turned back to them, and his eyes and voice and spine were steel. “So, here is what we’re going to do. First, you’re going to make a choice: are you ready to share this planet?”

* * *

Nick Fury leaned against a wall in the back of the Council Room, idly watching as the mutants leaned over a table alongside dozens of ambassadors and journalists and members of the UN Security Council, voices alternating between hushed whispers and shouts and everywhere in between. He took it all in, noticing who said what and who stayed carefully silent, who was eager and who was still shaking in their boots with fear. In the chaos of the day, no one even seemed to notice that he was standing apart from them.

He leaned over to Maria, quietly telling her, “When we get back to SHIELD, inform the WSC that I want approval for the Avengers Initiative. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

“I hate to ask Hank to go through all the trouble of building _another_ Cerebro,” Charles muttered, lowering the helmet over his head, “but I just don’t see any way to move it.”

“Not easily,” Erik agreed, pacing the room. Two years, and he still seemed nervous every time Charles did this, anxious at the thought that there was something Erik couldn’t protect him from. “But if anyone can manage this, it’s us.”

“But where would we even _put it_?”

Erik shrugged. “Logistics.”

Charles chuckled. “I think I’m going to miss this place. I can’t imagine we’ll be coming back for a while.” When he was a child, the mansion had seemed to be made of bad memories. Now when he thought of it, he heard Raven’s laughter, Alex and Sean’s shouts of amazement as they realized the extent of their power, and Hank’s sweet bumbling. He thought of Erik and all the time they’d spent falling in love here.

“We might visit every now and then, get away from everything.”

Charles smiled cheekily. “We haven’t even been in charge for three days, and you’re ready for a vacation?”

Erik shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. “To be fair, it’s been a _very_ eventful few days.”

Charles paused, his smile slowly falling. It was so easy to forget that just hours earlier, Erik had held the entire planet hostage.

Erik frowned, tilting his head down and looking at him. “You’re thinking about it again.”

Charles shrugged, unable to deny it.

“I’m not ashamed of it. It worked.”

“Would you be ashamed if it hadn’t?”

They stared at each other for several long moments. “Doesn’t matter. What matters now is our people. The future.” He checked Cerebro’s controls and readings one more time. “Are you ready?”

Charles kept his gaze trained on his partner before sighing and ducking his eyes. “Yes.” Whatever else happened, Erik had done what he had to do, and now Charles would do what he had to do. They could only move forward. “I’m ready.”

* * *

_Hello all,_

_If you’re hearing my voice, it means that you are a Mutant. It means that there is something different about you — something extraordinary. Something more than human._

_Maybe you were born different — with horns or blue skin or pointed ears. Maybe it’s recent. Maybe it only happened a few hours ago, and you’re scared. You’re worried you’ll hurt someone, or hurt yourself, or someone will find you and take you because of what you can do. Maybe you’ve already hurt someone. Maybe you’ve been scared your whole life._

_I’m here to tell you that there is nothing unnatural about you. There is nothing wrong with you. You are, each of you, a miracle of genetics, of life, of the world. And there are more like you. Many more. We are your family. And we will accept you._

_So if you’re scared or tired or alone, or you just want to know there are other people like you, then join us. Come to Genosha._

_Come home._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspiration for Magneto’s sppechiness from "Uncanny X-Men #200 Vol. 1" and "Marvel Heroes"


	6. Botanokinesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles discovers he has a secondary mutation.

Of course, after the UN came the real challenge: running a country.

Despite his continued grumbling, Charles became accustomed to getting up with Erik, which usually meant waking about moments after the sun did. They took half an hour to eat breakfast with Raven and one or more of the other X-Men, using the relatively uneventful part of the day to steel themselves for the rest. By the time it was seven, they’d gone their separate ways. Erik split his time between training their fledgling army and police force (both of which he insisted were necessary and could not just be extensions of the X-Men, _Charles_ ) and organizing or personally building the island’s growing infrastructure. The latter took more time than any of them would have liked, but it still went faster than if it were only humans working.

Charles would have liked to simply watch everyone at their work, combining their talents and abilities for the good of all of them. But he had his own duties, more diverse than Erik’s. He and Raven organized the influx of people they’d had after his speech with Cerebro, pleased to note that with the aid of Azazel, a portaller named Blink, and a few large boats (generously gifted by the UN after Charles ‘persuasively’ suggested it), Genosha’s population had reached a thousand people in a month. He and Hank sought out any newcomers with experience in education to help set up the schools they needed. Charles worked with older mutants who’d managed to achieve a background or degree in law or philosophy to hammer out laws and roughly outline what their government should be like (meetings Erik joined whenever he could) and met with diplomats and ambassadors, negotiating trades and treaties (meetings Erik joined with notably less frequency). Between it all, he managed to find an hour or so each day to speak with as many people as possible, comforting teenagers who’d run from home in fear, adults who’d eked out meager existences while hiding from society due to their impossible to hide physical mutations, and more than a few people whose manifestations had been particularly traumatic. It was exhausting for everyone, but no one seemed to care, throwing in every ounce of effort they had to make Genosha what they all knew it could be. _Home._

It was a shame that all Charles could think of at the moment was, “What is that _smell_?”

The small group of mutants standing around him froze, blinking in confusion. They were supposed to be choosing a site on the beach to start building more houses, but for the moment they were taking a break as Charles was tired after a poor night’s sleep.

“What do you mean, Prof?” Sean asked, looking around and sniffing obnoxiously, giving the beach a suspicious look.

“That— that _smell_! It’s awful!” How did no one else notice it? It clouded in and around Charles’s nose, fogging his head and making it impossible to think of anything else.

“It’s pork,” Phoebe said helpfully, sitting on a rock a few feet away from the others. She had taken to shadowing him when she had the time recently, and he could admit that he found her helpful, even if Erik was still slightly suspicious of her. At the moment, her hands occupied by white and red yarn as she sat knitting — a hobby that caused more than a few curious looks in the island heat. “A few people are pit-roasting a pig on the beach.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sean said, finally noticing it once it was pointed out. “Yeah, I can smell it now.” He shrugged. “Don’t know what’s wrong with you. Smells good. We should get some.”

Charles crinkled his nose, almost gagging at the thought. “ _No_ , thank you.”

Phoebe nodded as though this were an incredibly profound statement, then returned to her knitting needles.

* * *

Charles was no less tired the next day, though he’d postponed his and Erik’s nightly chess game the night before in favor of collapsing into bed, unconscious before he hit the pillow. If anything, he felt _worse_. When Erik came to wake him by shaking his shoulder, Charles groaned and burrowed deeper into his pillow. “Go away.” Erik tried again, but Charles swatted irritably at him before snapping, “ _I said go away!_ ”

Erik had never been good at doing what he was told.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, struggling to turn Charles onto his back. The telepath grumbled and tried to wriggle away, but he clearly wasn’t up for a fight. He gave in, looking absolutely miserable as he did, pouting as though Erik had gravely betrayed him. Erik ignored it, pressing the back of his hand to Charles’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

Charles shrugged pitifully. “I don’t know. I’m just . . . _exhausted_. And my head is killing me.”

Erik frowned, reaching out for Charles’s familiar presence in his head. It was there, but weak and small, like it had withdrawn into itself. He couldn’t tell if Charles was doing that on purpose so his pain didn’t affect Erik or if he didn’t even realize he’d done it. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

Face softening, Erik rose from the bed, pulling a blanket up to Charles’s stomach. “Get some rest. I’ll tell everyone you’re not feeling well. Just reach out if you need anything.”

“Thank you, darling,” Charles whispered, already half-asleep as he rolled over.

Erik smiled, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “You’re welcome.”

Charles snored.

* * *

Though he was still fatigued the next day, Charles managed to drag himself out of the base, take _far_ too long to get dressed (although the brief visit to Westchester meant that they all had their clothes back at least, thank God, Alex was starting to _reek_ ), and walk out to the slowly growing island on his own. Despite himself, he smiled. It was beautiful. Even disregarding the lively greens of the rainforest planets, the bright flowers that blossomed seemingly everywhere, and the shimmer of light on crystal-blue water, it was beautiful seeing this unreal dream of theirs turn into a reality. Already, there were houses lining parts of the beaches where sand met trees, enough that most of the original two hundred mutants had been able to move out of the crowded base.

Today though, they were moving inland.

“I just hate the thought of tearing all this down,” Seeder said with the quiet tone of someone who _wanted_ to speak up, to babble, but wasn’t sure if they were allowed. Charles was coming to recognize that type of behavior. It made him uncomfortable, but more than that, it broke his heart. Part of it came from the fact that he was their leader and they were unsure of him, but he knew that for others like Seeder, who had known fear not just because of their mutations, but because of their race, gender, religion, sexuality. He knew that Erik thought about it too, probably more than Charles. Erik would say it was idealistic of him, but Charles wanted Genosha to be a place where no one would know fear because of who they were, where children could grow up untouched by the prejudice their parents had run from. Maybe he couldn’t change _everyone_ , but he could certainly try.

He was roused from his thoughts when Seeder continued, leading him and Phoebe further into the rainforest that blanketed much of the island. He still wasn’t sure why the other woman insisted on joining him today — she’d finally been appointed their permanent representative to the United Nations, and now was often as busy as himself and Erik — but she hadn’t given him a chance to question her, simply showing up and walking with them, the same dreamy, yet startling intense look in her eyes that she usually had. Even if he’d had the energy to argue, it wasn’t worth it. So, she followed behind at an easy pace, occasionally commenting on one of Seeder’s ideas, suggesting what would and wouldn’t work, hands empty for once since she’d left her knitting behind.

Ignoring her, Charles set one hand on a tree more than three times as wide as him. “Could you do that on such a large scale?” he asked, careful to make his voice curious rather than doubtful or condescending.

Seeder nodded. “I’m sure I can.” She gestured to the trail before moving further down. “Dryad and I worked on this. It took a full day, but I think if we practice, keep at it, we could go faster. Maybe even a dozen a day in a few months.”

There was a small group of large, thick trees further on, but their trunks twisted around each other, forming a flat, circular platform on which their branches had spread upwards into what anyone could recognize as a house. A few meters away, a similar building stood.

Charles beamed. “That’s amazing!”

Seeder returned his smile. Charles felt her nerves slowly unwinding as she relaxed.

He ducked around the trees, examining it from every possible side and angle. The dark wood, vibrant leaves, red flowers blooming, their sweet scent thick in the air. “It’s beautiful. Living _with_ the forest rather than against it, making it a part of us . . . it’s everything Genosha represents.” He turned to Seeder. “I’m going to put you in charge of this project. You’ll report to me, and just ask if you need anything, supplies, people, anything at all.”

Seeder’s smile was brighter than a sunrise, but for some reason, Phoebe looked oddly . . . wary.

Charles shook his head, trying to brush it off, but the motion made his temple ache.

He was considering ending the tour and heading back to the base for a cup of tea when Seeder pointed above them. “It’s safe to walk up. There’s a rope bridge connecting them. Do you want to see inside?”

And he couldn’t bring himself to say no when just minutes ago she had been so nervous around her. He accepted with a smile that didn’t look nearly as forced as it was, following her up the tree (and the trunk caved slightly at places to make natural rungs, how lovely was that?) with Phoebe close at his heels. He was breathing harder than he’d like to admit once they were up, which was odd, but he ignored it. The house itself wasn’t large, best-suited to two or three people, but the floors were smooth, and there was a loft area centered around the tree trunk that shout through the middle, along with a balcony that ringed the cylindrical building.

He leaned over the railing, looking out. “Oh, this is magnificent.” Yes, it was a bit dizzying to look down, but other than that . . .

“Are you okay, Professor?”

Charles was pretty sure he nodded, though he couldn’t entirely tell. His head was pounding, blurring his vision. He tried to speak. “Yes, of course, I’m just . . . a bit tired . . .”

Then, because he was still quite certain that he’d intended to see the bridge, he tried to walk towards it. It was just bad luck that his walk turned into a lurch.

He might have pitched himself straight over to the forest floor if it weren’t for Phoebe’s hands closing around his upper arms and yanking him back, holding him upright with a strength he didn’t know she had.

Charles stumbled, trying and failing to hold himself up as Phoebe’s arms loosely encircled him from behind. He frowned. “Terribly sorry . . . I don’t seem to be . . . quite myself today . . .”

His apology was somewhat cut short when he fell unconscious.

* * *

Charles sensed the minds around him before he came back to his own. Anxious thoughts clouded the heads of Raven, Hank, Sean, and Alex, all of them lingering over him. Raven was the closest, a blue hand wrapped around his own. He couldn’t help himself from overhearing her thoughts. _Please be okay, Charles, please, read my mind just this once and please be okay . . ._

Well, he could do that for her at least.

Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. Infirmary lights glared down at him. Raven hovered above him in her natural blue form, yellow eyes worried.

Charles tried for a smile. “Concern, dear sister? I’m touched.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he got the entire sentence out. His tongue felt too large in his mouth, and his head was stuffed with cotton. He was sure he spoke. He couldn’t guarantee that he was coherent.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Raven said before throwing her arms around her brother.

Charles blinked, staring at her orange-red hair. “Oh, this is nice.” He managed to pull himself away from her mind, focusing on the others. They were still worried, but open relief flooded them as they let out tired breaths and eyed each other. Charles looked at them, frowning. “Where’s Erik?”

No one answered, turning instead to awkwardly stare at the walls or floors.

Charles pushed himself into a sitting position, giving them a stern look as his head and throat cleared. “Did anyone tell Erik about this?”

After a beat, Raven said, “Well, we were kind of hoping you’d wake up fine before we had to.”

Charles stared at his sister before responding. “. . . Smart.” Truly, he adored Erik, but the last thing anyone needed was an over-protective telekinetic running around demanding to know who’d hurt Charles. Especially since the answer was Charles.

Shaking his head, he threw his legs over the side of the infirmary bed. “Very good, then.” He tried to stand up, but suddenly the others were crowding him, pushing him back down.

“Prof, are you _insane?_ ” Sean asked incredulously, holding down Charles’s right arm while Alex took the left.

“Professor,” Hank began nervously, “you _fainted_. And we _don’t know why_. Don’t you think you should maybe have a physical? Do some tests?”

Charles scoffed. “Surely it’s not _that_ serious—”

“We’ll tell Erik,” Alex piped up, staring him down. The others joined in, each of them giving Charles a dead-serious look.

“. . . Crap.”

* * *

Charles sighed when a man walked into the infirmary room, an American doctor who he recognized as having mild healing powers. He rolled his head to look at Hank. “Is this necessary?”

Hank shrugged. “I don’t have a medical degree.”

“Really?” Charles asked irritably. “You graduated college before you were twenty, and you can’t hand me a bottle of aspirin?”

The second mutant smiled reassuringly, reaching an open hand out to Charles. “Professor Xavier, I’m Doctor Joshua Foley. You can also call me Elixir, since I heard we’re choosing new names.”

“Oh. Is that something _everyone’s_ doing now?”

“Apparently!” Elixir beamed. “It’s an honor to be able to help you. When you told us there was a place where we could be with other people like us, I knew I had to come immediately.”

Despite himself, Charles smiled. “We’re happy to have you here. Even though I have other things I should really be doing, _Hank—_ ”

“So!” Elixir clapped his hands, drawing Charles’s attention back. “Back to the matter at hand. I’m told you fainted earlier.”

Charles nodded reluctantly. “I _suppose_ you could say that.”

“You had to be teleported to the infirmary,” Hank helpfully pointed out.

“Yes, well, how would I know that?”

Elixir nodded, writing something down on a clipboard (and when had they ordered clipboards? did he bring that to Genosha?). “Alright. Would you say you’ve had any other symptoms?”

Charles shrugged. “Oh, nothing so serious, truly. I’ve been having headaches, but that’s the only thing really out of the ordinary.”

Elixir scribbled down what he’d said. “Alright—”

“Well,” Charles interrupted, tilting his head, “and I’m tired a lot. Fatigued, that’s the word. I haven’t been eating much. Most foods smell awful to me now. _Meat_ , I can’t stand the smell of cooking meat. I vomited yesterday because Raven was having runny eggs for breakfast. So I suppose I’m nauseous. I’ve been sleeping a lot, but I’m always tired. And my head hurts even when I try shielding to keep people’s minds out.” He shrugged. “But I don’t think it’s that serious.”

Elixir stared at him. “That’s . . . and how long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

“Just the past two weeks or so.”

Hank stared at him. “And you didn’t _tell anyone_?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” Truly, it wasn’t his fault. His mother was British, they weren’t supposed to let people know they had problems.

Elixir nodded in understanding, though Charles knew from his thoughts that he was really wondering how the telepath had survived this long. “Alright. Well, we’ll do some blood and urine tests and go from there.” He paused, looking around the sparse infirmary. “We _do_ have tests here, correct?”

Hank nodded. “We brought some things over from the mansion.”

Elixir raised a brow. “Hope that’s one well-stocked house.”

Fortunately, it was. Charles laid back in an infirmary bed, sipping orange juice and idly nibbling at a fig after his blood was taken and Hank and Elixir disappeared to run their tests. He figured it would only take half an hour or so.

Three hours later, they returned and Charles had run out of both figs and orange juice. He probably would have been more annoyed about that if it weren’t for the painfully nervous looks on their faces, Hank’s wide eyes, and the broken clipboard in his furry hands.

“Professor,” Elixir began awkwardly, “sir, is it . . . possible that you perhaps have a . . . _secondary_ mutation?”

Charles frowned at him before turning to his student. “Hank?”

“Weranthetestsandwethinkyourepregnant,” Hank said in an incomprehensible rush.

Charles blinked in confusion. “Repeat that?”

“We ran the tests and we think you’re pregnant!”

Charles stared. Blinked some more. Then, quietly, “Come again?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, throwing all subtlety out the window: Y’all read the tags, you knew this was coming


	7. Unique Anatomy and Physiology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles comes to a decision. Erik gets some news.

Erik would never forget the night they met.

He knew how other people felt about telepaths. Even Raven was likely to snap at her brother if she suspected he’d gone snooping around her head. But the first time he’d felt Charles’s mind in his hadn’t felt like an invasion, hadn’t seemed unnatural. No, it was the most natural thing in the world. One moment, he had been drowning, determined to kill Shaw even if it meant tearing himself apart. The next, he was surrounded by the burning warmth and light and _sensation_ that was Charles Xavier, and the world had new meaning. The submarine ceased to exist for him. His universe narrowed down to this one man, this person like him, with his blue eyes and his red lips and his _kindness_. He’d never felt anything like that.

He wondered if Charles Xavier could make him feel like that every day.

After they’d boarded the Coast Guard’s boat and headed below deck to change into dry clothes, they’d been standing alone in a small, poorly lit room as they undressed. Erik stretched awkwardly for his zipper. Charles hadn’t even asked, hadn’t said anything at all before walking over and unzipping the wetsuit himself, deft hands peeling the rubbery material off. Erik should have been annoyed, should have snapped at him to keep his clever fingers to himself.

He didn’t.

If Erik was honest with himself, he’d known he wanted Charles even then. But he didn’t said anything, didn’t try to reach out when the telepath laid gentle, understanding hands on his scarred skin. His body was a live-wire, raw nerves laid bare to the other mutant. Any other person in the world, and he would have flinched away, would have growled and grabbed their wrist and twisted until it snapped—

But Charles didn’t have taking hands. His fingers were gentle in a way that was foreign to him. He wouldn’t touch Erik to hurt him, would never take anything that wasn’t offered. Before either of them had even realized what they were doing, Charles was brushing his fingers through Erik’s still-wet hair before drawing them down his cheek and neck, tracing the harsh jut of his collarbone before winding back up. He stopped when his hand was cupping the other man’s cheek and Erik, despite himself, leaned into the warm touch.

It took him a minute to open his eyes. When he did, Charles was staring back at him. The words from earlier rang through Erik’s ears. _You’re not alone, you’re not alone, we’re not alone_ —

Nothing else happened between them that night. The boat was swarming with CIA agents, and there were questions to be asked, mutants to meet, Shaw to track. Then they were on the road, trying to find others of their own kind. There must have been a thousand opportunities then. When he slept, he descended into dreams of Charles’s pink lips, lithe body, and clever fingers. Looking back, he thought Charles must have avoided looking at Erik’s mind after the first time he said to, because he never seemed to know the thoughts Erik had, the desire to reach out and take him. Erik knew that he could have had the other mutant any time he wanted, but it had seemed too risky, their connection too fragile. Charles was the first person he’d cared about since his mother died. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t tell how broken Erik was, that he didn’t see how everything he touched cracked and turned to ashes in his hands. Charles may have looked into his mind once, but it was obvious that he was too idealistic to see Erik for the monster Shaw made. After that first night, he didn’t touch Charles again for months.

No, nothing else happened between them until the night after the satellite dish.

Erik wasn’t ashamed to cry when Charles brought that memory forth. He hadn’t even realized he still had any untouched good memories, that he could even _feel_ happiness like that anymore. Two things happened then. The first was that he realized that Charles saw him, _truly saw_ every part of Erik, the good and the bad (and he hadn’t even believed there was any good left in himself). But he didn’t leave, didn’t flinch or look away. The second was that he realized that he could feel that way again, that he could _be happy_ _with Charles_. It was a revelation. Never before had he imagined a future before himself after killing Shaw. After that day, he started to think there might be one.

That night, Erik gathered all his will to knock on Charles’s door. The telepath answered immediately. He’d probably sensed Erik’s arrival long before, had stood there waiting for the minutes it took Erik to force himself into action, but he waited for the other man to make the first move. He waited until Erik was ready.

That, as much as anything, confirmed what Erik already knew.

He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. They looked at each other, long, drawn-out stares unaccompanied by words. Then Charles was in his arms, red mouth soft against Erik’s chapped lips, hands holding him like he was scared to let go, and it felt like coming home.

He always said Charles had given him a home.

* * *

Once, when her shedding scales had her in a bad mood, Raven said that mutation was equal parts cool powers and weird shit happening to your body. Charles was inclined to agree.

The first thing he did was demand to see the results from his tests. What they said made the anxiety rise higher in his throat. Raised levels of estrogen, progesterone, HCG. It was the first two making him nauseous, but the progesterone, Elixir explained while trying to ignore the fact that Charles was in shock, was what lowered his blood pressure and made him dizzy. But HCG was the clear factor. It was a key hormone in pregnancy which would surround the growing embryo and eventually form the placenta. It was what home tests checked, and it simply wasn’t seen in levels like this outside of pregnancy. Or at all in men.

Charles snapped out of it when he finished, insisting, “But you have to be mistaken. I’m sure I’d have noticed if I had an entire other set of organs.”

“Would you?” Elixir asked, brow arched. “If you were born with them, you might never have noticed that your body felt different from others, you would just assume everyone felt that way. You said earlier that you’ve never had surgery before? No one would have noticed if you showed no other signs externally. Not even you.”

“But it still doesn’t make sense!” Charles insisted. “Isn’t there another way we can test it?”

Hank grew still for a moment, furry brows furrowed in concentration. “. . . Hold on.” He showed them a side-room typically used for examinations, but now dominated by a sonogram machine. “We actually had this brought over by ship just for the island,” he explained as he set it up. “I wasn’t even thinking about it since it’s not a necessity — they’re not widely-used in most places right now — but Phoebe absolutely insisted. She said it would be especially useful for mutant pregnancies since so many of us already have unusual anatomy or organs and it would be good to see what all was going on inside. I didn’t know why she cared so much, but . . .” He glanced at Charles before hastily turning away. “I figured she knew something I didn’t.”

Charles chose to ignore this as the incredibly damning evidence that it was and simply subjected himself to having cold gel rubbed over his stomach.

For a moment, it seemed like nothing would happen. The black and white lines remained dull and shapeless. Charles allowed relief to take hold.

Then— “There it is!” Elixir said, pointing out a small, vaguely rounded black-and-white smudge. “I haven’t really worked with this machine much before, but I can see it. Here, this space is the uterus. We might do some scans later, try to map out all the organs and see what’s different. But you can see a sac here. It doesn’t look like much now — not even big enough to hear a heartbeat — but it’s definitely there, a couple of dots if you look _riiiiight_ here . . .”

Charles did not look _riiiiight_ there.

And he almost could have dismissed all of that (for his own sanity if nothing else) were it not for the feeling in his head.

For days, he’d dismissed it as a simple, if irritating, headache. He was under a lot of stress, tired, not eating enough, it was bound to happen. Now, he turned inside his own head, searching that feeling out, isolating it from the rest of his mind, and forcing himself to examine it. The more he did so, the less it hurt. Rather, it felt like . . . a presence. Barely there at all, certainly nowhere near having genuine thoughts or even feelings, but somehow, _there_. Quietly attached to his mind as though there were nowhere else it could be, as though it were _natural_.

Charles was still musing on that when Hank spoke again. “I know we can’t make any assumptions right now — we all know mutation is strange — but I have to think that there is _another_ parent, correct?”

Charles didn’t respond.

“Professor . . . would I be correct to assume that when you tell the ‘other parent’, it would be a good idea not to have any metal around?”

Charles was afraid his laugh sounded quite hysterical.

* * *

Charles went through the rest of his day in a daze, the black-and-white sonogram picture stuffed into one of his pockets. Elixir had said more, droning on about his diet and vitamins and c-sections and a recent study about avoiding alcohol. There might have been more, but he was walking out the door by that point. He wandered around the base until he somehow ended up at his and Erik’s room, waving off anyone who spoke to him with “Ask Erik” or “Ask Raven”. He shut the door behind himself, withdrawing his telepathy from the minds lingering outside until he was alone in his head. He laid down on the bed without bothering to take off his shoes and stared up at the ceiling.

 _Pregnant._ The idea was so foreign to him that he didn’t know how to even begin to process it. He’d never suspected that he had a physical mutation, never mind an entire _secondary reproductive system._ He didn’t know how his body would react, or if he would even survive the change. Hell, he didn’t even know how to take care of a child! The closest he’d come was Raven, and she had _plenty_ to say about his poor attempts at parenting her.

And Erik, he hadn’t even thought about how Erik would react. He’d never even caught Erik half-thinking about having children. He didn’t seem to think it was an option for him. For _them_. What would he say when Charles told him? _Could_ Charles tell him?

He was so lost in his musing that he almost jumped out of his skin when Erik suddenly appeared in their bed hours later, looking at him with genuine concern. “Are you alright? Hank said you had to go to the infirmary.”

Charles grimaced. _Damn you, Hank, I thought you were on my side._ Feeling guilty, he glanced over the surface of Erik’s thoughts, relieved when he saw that Hank hadn’t given him any more information. He forced a smile. “Just a headache. I think it’s something to do with all the mutants milling around. I might try shielding more.”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to ask Erik if he ever thought about having children. He wanted to kiss him and forget everything that had happened. He wanted to beg Erik never to leave him. Instead he said, “Just hold me for a while and I’ll feel better.”

Smiling, Erik wrapped his arms around Charles from behind, holding him close and burying his nose in the nape of Charles’s neck. Charles closed his eyes and tried not to think about how much time he had left like this.

* * *

The next day, he decided that he would think about the issue rationally, like the scientist he was.

He started by listing the facts. First, he was pregnant; the hormonal tests and sonogram confirmed this. Second, Erik was the father (well, _other_ father); unless this secondary mutation allowed him to reproduce asexually (which they hadn’t yet ruled out as a possible, but Charles _knew_ , instinctively, and wasn’t that something pregnant people did?), there was no other candidate. Third, he was approximately six weeks along; the night when Erik proposed his plan for Genosha had been the first and last time in a while that they’d had both the time and energy for anything more than an enthusiastic blowjob. Fourth, this meant that assuming things developed normally, he had 33 to 34 weeks more weeks of pregnancy.

He felt better once he thought about it . . . for about five minutes, because really, the facts were the easiest part of it. After that, he tried to decide what he wanted to do next.

He asked himself a question: did he want to have a child?

That part stumped him. He knew he _liked_ children just fine. When he was younger, he’d always imagined himself having kids when the time came. He liked the _idea_ of having a family. He’d always enjoyed taking care of people.

But then came Erik, and it had only taken him a few days to realize that he could never leave him. The future he’d imagined as a mild-mannered, but charming professor with a lovely wife who knew his secret and two to four children was quietly closed-off to him. He traded it for a future with Erik with no regret. Instead of having children of his own, he devoted himself to his X-Men, training them, comforting them, helping them accept themselves. Instead of a human wife, his nights were spent tangled up with Erik, of shut doors and dark rooms cut through with hushed moans and feverish kisses. He’d begun to prepare himself for a lifetime of hiding their relationship, knowing that others would likely never entirely accept them and that it didn’t matter so long as they accepted each other.

Except now he could see that future. Oh, not with a faceless, mild-mannered wife or a suburban house, but in Genosha with Erik, with his shining mind and fearful love. He tried to picture Erik with a child. Softly humming a lullaby to a newborn, playing with them on the beach, training them if they had powers, comforting them after their first broken heart. He knew that Erik would be an incredibly protective father, always loving even if he wasn’t the best at showing it. He would do whatever it took to make sure their children were safe and happy.

In the end, it wasn’t such a difficult question after all.

* * *

And so came the final part of his rational plan: action. He had to tell Erik.

This, somehow, was the hardest part of all. Partially due to practical concerns. Most of their work was spent apart, and by the time they reunited, they were both exhausted, barely doing anything other than eating dinner and giving each other a rundown of their day before going to sleep. Not to mention Erik was beginning to grow increasingly snappish at the end of the day. And somehow, it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing to bring up at breakfast. _Good morning, darling. I made eggs, do you like them? No bacon of course, I remembered. Also I’m pregnant. Well, better head off, have a wonderful day and don’t be late for dinner!_ Christ, he sounded like something from the sitcoms his mother used to watch when she was pissed (which was often).

If he was being honest, he could have _made_ time. By the end of their second month in Genosha ( _eight weeks_ ), they’d made tremendous progress in infrastructure, and had two mutants who could affect plant growth, so no one was going hungry anytime soon. He could have delegated some of his work to other people and simply _asked_ Erik to stay behind because they had something important to talk about. It would have been the simplest thing to do.

So why couldn’t he do it?

After two straight weeks of putting it off, he had to admit to himself that he didn’t want to disrupt the fantasy he’d made in his head. He wanted to think that Erik would get used to the idea, that he might even be _excited_ , but he knew there was a very real possibility he wouldn’t be. Neither of them had known this could happen. What if shock gave way to unhappiness, disinterest, even _anger_? If Erik turned out to be anything less than supportive, Charles was pretty sure he’d burst into tears. And it would only partially be because of the hormones.

So, he avoided it. Oh, he’d have to tell Erik sooner or later, but why did it have to be sooner? He’d start showing eventually, Erik would have to notice. There wouldn’t be much either of them could do by that point. Hell, maybe he could even pretend to be surprised too. _No Erik, I had no idea this was a possibility. Certainly never talked to a doctor or had tests done. Oh well, nothing to do for it now. Be a dear and help me set up the nursery, won’t you?_

. . .

Alright, he wasn’t THAT desperate.

Still, he held his tongue for the time being, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. Another hour, day, week couldn’t hurt that much.

Except then they were standing on a grassy hill overlooking a cliff, no one but themselves around for over a mile, and nothing to do but talk.

Around half of the island was rainforest, another part was beach, but a third of it was this. Tall grass spread out over rich soil. Some of it was already partitioned for farmland, but Erik had been the one to suggest using this spot for larger, more important buildings that wouldn’t fit in the forest or on a beach. They were supposed to be deciding where everything would go, but Charles knew he was being less than helpful.

Not that Erik seemed to mind. Rather, he was looking out over a cliff with interest, a soft smile insistently tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This is a beautiful spot.”

Charles nodded, pretending to pay attention. “It is.”

Erik shrugged. “Of course, if we were going to build a school, we’d have to put up fences to keep the children from going over the cliff. They’d have to be sturdy, some of the children are strong.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Still, it’s a very nice place to raise the baby.”

“Yes, I agree—”

Charles stopped. Opened his mouth. Thought about what Erik had just said. Closed his mouth. Opened it again. “Excuse me?”

Erik chuckled. _Chuckled._ _That dick._ “Charles, did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Just a headache? You’ve been sick and exhausted for weeks. I’ve caught you vomiting in the bathroom _twice_.” He wrapped a hand around Charles’s wrist and drew him close, smiling. “And besides . . . you project in your sleep when you’re stressed. Granted, the first few times you dreamed about trying to bottle-feed a dozen infants at once, I ignored it, but a pattern is a pattern.” He shifted. “And Hank was acting nervous.” He shrugged. “More so than he normally does around me, I suppose. After that, I looked through his notes, but that just confirmed my suspicions.”

Charles frowned. “You know, most people consider looking through another person’s medial information without their consent a crime.”

Erik shrugged. “Well, it’s a good thing Genosha doesn’t have any laws about that yet.”

“Really?” Charles asked seriously, making a mental note of that. “Remind me to add it to my agenda.”

Erik lowered his face, trying and failing to hide a laugh. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Slowly, Charles wound his arms around Erik’s neck, resting his face in the crook of his lover’s neck. It took a minute to voice the question that haunted him. “So you’re . . . happy?”

Erik didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low and calm. “I was shocked at first. I snapped at everyone, avoided you so you wouldn’t read my thoughts. I didn’t know what to do. But the more I thought about, the less surprising it seemed.” When Charles frowned up at him in confusion, he explained, “You’re always giving me back the things I thought I’d never have again. First a home, then a future. Now you’re giving me a family. A _child_.” He paused, frowning slightly as he realized something. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before.”

Charles felt tears prickle at his eyes as he buried his face into Erik’s chest, relief flooding him. It took a few seconds for him to realize he should correct Erik. “Child _ren_.” When Erik just frowned, uncomprehending, Charles held up two fingers. “Two.”

Erik stared at him. “. . . Oh.”

Charles grinned. “Are you still happy now?”

Erik arched a brow at him before taking a step back. He went to his knees, hands hovering in front of Charles’s stomach, like he was afraid to touch him, like he was fragile.

Moving slowly, as though Erik were a startled animal, Charles pressed one of his partner’s hands to his stomach. “See?” he asked softly. “You won’t hurt us. We trust you.”

Erik chuckled harshly, but his hands moved with greater confidence, lifting Charles’s shirt lightly and covering the front of his slight abdomen. He hadn’t even begun to gain weight. Anyone watching them would have been confused, but Charles could free the presence slowly growing in his mind, their identity clear now that he knew.

His stomach tickled when Erik’s hair brushed against it, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood and let himself sink into Erik’s head like taking a hot bath at the end of a hard day. Warm and comforted and _happy_.

“You don’t know me yet,” Erik whispered, voice low and rough, his German accent slipping in as he grew emotional. “But you have both made me so proud already. I know I love you. And I will never let anything take you from us, never let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

Charles laughed, trying to look casual even as he grew teary-eyed. “They’re going to be so spoiled.”

Erik laughed. “ _Good._ ”  
  



	8. Acidic Projection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Charles handle the repercussions of their relationship becoming public ... and get some unexpected visitors.

“You know, we’ll have to tell people soon,” Erik pointed out as Charles stood in front of their mirror, trying to decide if the slow-growing baby bump at his stomach was at all noticeable or if people would just assume he’d over-indulged at breakfast.

Charles sighed, letting his shirt fall back down over his abdomen, glad to see that this effectively hid it. “Why?”

Erik arched a brow. “What exactly were _you_ going to say happened? We just so happened to _find_ two newborn mutants lying around that no one had noticed?”

Charles stared at his reflection. “I hadn’t thought of it, honestly.” He wondered if that was pregnant brain or just plain denial.

Erik shook his head fondly. He was looking fond an awful lot lately, Charles didn’t expect it to last.

Charles started to bite back a retort before something else Erik said caught his attention. “Who says they’ll be mutants?”

By the time he’d spoken, Erik was standing himself, getting dressed for the day. He froze now, a thin, but long-sleeved red shirt in his hands. He shook himself before pulling it on, grinning at Charles when he noticed the way he pouted. “Of course they will be. We’re both mutants—”

“But we don’t entirely know how mutation _works_ yet,” Charles pointed out. “We don’t know if it’s possible for two mutants to have human children or not. We don’t even _know_ any mutant couples with children. For all we know, two mutants _always_ have human children.” Honestly, that seemed _incredibly_ unlikely and they both knew it. But the point was that there was no guarantee. They didn’t _know._

Erik stared, giving him a stubborn, closed-mouth looked that suggested the conversation was over. Charles immediately decided that this wouldn’t fly. “ _Erik._ ”

When he didn’t respond, Charles grabbed Erik’s hand, forcing the other man to look at him. “Erik, I need to know, _right now_ , that if our children are human, you will still love them. Because if you can’t—” Charles’s throat tightened. “If you can’t, then you already don’t love them enough to be their father, and I won’t—”

The weight of Erik’s hands on his upper-arms was sudden, the movement almost vicious as Erik pressed him against a wall, staring down at Charles with eyes filled with open anger and pain and love. “ _Nothing_ will stop me from caring for our children. And no one could keep me from them. Not even that and not even you.” When he saw that Charles was still unconvinced, Erik grabbed one of his hands and lifted it, making the telepath press a hand against Erik’s temple.

Charles followed the implied order reluctantly, opening his mind to Erik’s with the ease of opening one’s bedroom window. That didn’t stop him from feeling like he’d been thrown into the middle of a storm made up of howling winds and flashing lightning and dark skies. Erik’s emotions often threatened to overwhelm him, and this was as bad as it got. No matter how calm and collected he appeared to others, Charles knew just how much his feelings drove him.

It was only this understanding of Erik that had kept them together on the beach in Cuba. Only Charles could have kept them together and only because he knew Erik, knew every crook and crevice of his mind. He knew that, at his core, Erik didn’t _hate_ humanity, or at least not as a whole. In fact, there had been humans he cared for greatly, his parents being the first to come to mind. But he was a survivor. His father had died fruitlessly trying to protect his family. His mother was murdered in front of him. And even Charles, who’d been inside his head and witnessed his memories, could not truly comprehend the horror of witnessing the attempted extermination of your race. If Erik had his way, Charles would never _have_ to understand.

And that was the crux of it. Every time they found a warehouse or black site or lab where Mutants were being held and experimented on, Erik saw the past in the future. He truly believed that if they didn’t strike first, then the humans would wipe them out. He saw it as necessary self-defense. If the human race ended as a result, then that was just an unfortunate side-effect.

It was only because Charles understood him so well — had all but lived inside his head for those precious few weeks in Westchester, soothing him back to sleep after nightmares, debating with him over games of chess, talking for hours about a possible future neither of them thought they would ever see — that he could change Erik’s mind. Not his beliefs. No, that was impossible. Once Erik set his mind to something, nothing could stop him from getting it. He was simultaneously unstoppable force and immovable object. It was inevitable. _He_ was inevitable.

On the beach, he’d been forced to play by Erik’s rules. Missiles hovered in the air as Charles had thrown out every argument he could think of. There were less than a dozen mutants on the beach, but Russia and the U.S. had hundreds of thousands of soldiers between them, untold numbers of guns and missiles. A moment’s victory would cost them more in the long run. They had no idea how many soldiers were on the ships, but if Erik killed them all, it would rip Charles’s mind apart, overwhelming his telepathy in a way they couldn’t even comprehend. He might die right at Erik’s feet, and no one would be able to save him. If he did this, then they would never be able to bridge the gap between them, and the mutants would be separated, divided and easier to track down, capture, _kill_. They were so much stronger together, and this would tear them apart, didn’t he see?

When Erik wavered, Charles had lost all sense of dignity in his desperation. He’d fallen to his knees in the sand and simply begged Erik to stay. His own words came back to him often, always with a mixture of shame and relief. He’d been close to shouting, but his telepathy kept the others on the beach from hear him, knowing that what he said was something intended for Erik and Erik alone. Sometimes he wondered if they knew anyway.

_Please don’t leave us. Please don’t leave me. I love you. If you kill them and leave, they’ll hunt us down, all of us. They’ll kill me Erik, can you live with that? I don’t want to die apart from you. I don’t care what else happens, I don’t care about a war or the humans (lies), just don’t leave me. Damn you, Erik, don’t you know I love you? Don’t you care about us at all? Do you want me to die here? I died holding Shaw for you, wasn’t that enough? I gave up part of my soul helping you kill him. I already died for you twice, do I have to die again? Don’t you love me?_

It was the first time Erik ever said the words. _I love you,_ pulled through gritted teeth, each syllable dragged forth as though against his will. _More than you will ever know._ The missiles set off harmlessly in midair, and Charles let the tears fall from his eyes.

He waded through those memories, immersing himself in quietly simmering anger for humanity, pride for Genosha, tentative hope for their people. And overwhelming the rest, a painful mixture of love and fear. Erik loved Charles. He already loved the children they would have. He was terrified that something or someone would take them away, hurt them, make them hate him. It was something Charles doubted he would ever truly get over. But he loved them. Far more than his own life, even than his hatred, he loved them.

Charles pulled back to himself, feeling strange as he always did when he was fully in his own body again. He stayed where he was, seeking connection by holding Erik’s face, his own cheek pressed into the other man’s chest. Erik wrapped his arms tighter around Charles, squeezing him reassuringly before kissing his temple. “Nothing could stop me from loving our children,” Erik said, deathly serious. “Or protecting them.”

* * *

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Raven said, eagerly dishing out a serving of pot roast to her plate. “There’s not enough meat in this place. If I had to have another meal of barely-seasoned fish or chicken, I was gonna commit so much homicide.”

Charles rolled his eyes good-naturedly before taking a bite of his own. The delighted moan that came out of his mouth was not quite appropriate for dinner, but he was so hungry he didn’t care. He was _finally_ able to eat meat again without vomiting, and he planned to take full advantage.

The others just rolled their eyes, used to his utter lack of propriety when it came to delicious food. Charles smiled, happy to see their original team gathered. It was becoming more and more rare for them to spend time together as a group. Alex and Sean were busy training their new police force, Hank never seemed to take a break from preparing for the school and hospital they planned to build, and Raven went from place to place adapting herself to any task that needed another set of hands. It had been an effort even to get them together just for the night. Now, they barely bothered to finish chewing before they spoke, all of them eager to catch up. Charles took a moment to just watch in contentment before his stomach growled and he remembered he was eating for three.

“You, uh . . .” Sean began, pausing in the middle of spearing his salad, “you hungry there, Prof?”

Charles glanced up, belatedly realizing that the others had in fact noticed him eating off of Erik’s plate after his own was empty. He smiled sheepishly. “My mistake.” To Erik, he said, thoughtlessly, “Apologies, darling.”

For a moment, he didn’t realize what he’d done, simply wondering why everyone was staring at them. Then his head caught up with his tongue. “Oh . . . um . . .”

Erik, God damn him, was _smiling_. “Yes, _dear_?”

Charles screwed his eyes shut. “Not helping.”

The tension in the room seemed to break. The others sighed or rolled their eyes. Raven shook her head with a smile, reaching for her glass of wine as she spoke. “So you two finally realized it’s not a secret, huh?”

Charles stared at his sister, vaguely aware that he’d made a small sound of offense. “Excuse me?”

“We knew,” Alex said bluntly. “We’ve known for almost two years.”

“I mean,” Sean began, still eating, “some of us suspected for longer than that.”

“You didn’t always get back to your room in time, Erik,” Hank added quietly.

“And Charles and I have that twin-telepathy thing,” Raven said, despite the fact that they were neither twins nor biologically related at all. “It means I can always tell when he’s been fucked.”

“ _Excuse you—_ ”

“The point is,” Raven said insistently, speaking over him, “that we know. And we’re happy for you.” She looked at the others sharply, barking out, “ _Right?_ ”

The boys nodded with varying degrees of fear in their eyes.

“I mean,” Sean said, carefully avoiding their faces, “it was weird at first to think that you guys were . . . you know.” Thoughts flashed through his head, strong and clear enough for Charles to clearly understand them even as Sean tried to shove them back down. He recognized some of them, not from his students, but from the hundreds of other minds he’d known throughout his life. It didn’t surprise him that his own children had had such thoughts in the past, had looked at him and wondered if there was something wrong with him, something broken and perverted.

What surprised him more was the raw taste of guilt that adorned such thoughts.

“But it’s you guys,” Sean continued.

The others nodded in agreement, as though this were the single most profound thing they’d ever heard.

Charles wondered if it were him or Hank that was more surprised when the furry blue mutant spoke up next. “You told us that these things that make us different from everyone else . . . they’re not bad. They’re just us.”

Charles smiled softly, covering his mouth with one hand. “You’re going to make me cry.” He meant it. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He felt the others’ emotions, heard their thoughts, their quiet love and support, and Erik’s shock. He had a moment to think, _Oh, not again_ , before the tears poured free against his will.

Erik set a gentle hand on his shoulder before passing him a napkin as the others stared in horrified shock, seeming more surprised by Charles’s open display of emotion than by his sexuality. Charles cried harder.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, dabbing at his eyes. “I’m just horm— oh, fuck, I almost forgot to tell you about that.” He shook his head at himself. “God, I am not myself today!”

“I think you have a good excuse,” Erik said playfully. Raven, Alex, and Sean were all confused. Hank looked vaguely constipated, reaching for his wine glass and immediately coughing after a sip.

Charles, pulling himself together, sat up straighter in his chair. “Erik and I have something to tell you— well, something _else_ to tell you—”

“Are we getting another country?” Alex interrupted, sounding hopeful.

Sean nodded eagerly. “I want one with snow this time so we can go skiing.”

“I want mountains. I want to go rock climbing and try blowing up boulders.”

Charles, used to their antics, ignored them completely. “—but I’m not entirely sure how to tell you. So instead, I’ll tell Raven, and she’ll take it from there.”

Raven looked at him suspiciously as he leaned over, whispering in her ear. Her yellow eyes widened. She shot up from the table. “YOU’RE PREGNANT?!”

Erik raised his glass. “There it is.”

* * *

Charles and Erik had another talk about it after that dinner and decided they wouldn’t make any further announcements. No one else really _needed_ to know, but people would start to notice on their own sooner or later. They would take it as it came, and focus on what mattered in the meantime.

Sooner rather than later, he considered when Sean started following him around the next day.

Charles just smiled at first, figuring the young adult simply wanted to spend time with him and help out after they’d not seen much of each other. Still, he’d expected him to leave after the first two meetings Charles attended, these ones with a few mutants he was training to become diplomats soon. Instead, Sean kept following him, always a few steps behind, looking around suspiciously. It didn’t take long for Charles to become curious. Without warning, he took a peek into Sean’s thoughts.

He stopped in his tracks. “You’re _joking_.”

Charles didn’t care for a moment that people would see him or that there were things to be done. He stormed over to the southern beach where Erik was helping erect houses in the sand, long strips of repurposed metal forming the bases for new homes. Charles didn’t stop until he was right in front of him, standing between Erik and the group of mutants he’d been working with, all of whom looked around at each other with an expression reminiscent of a child whose parents were about to fight in front of them.

“We need to talk,” Charles said shortly.

Erik hesitated, looking around. “I think I’m still needed here—”

“ _Now._ ”

“Of course.”

They wandered closer to the water so no one could overhear them. Charles rolled his eyes when he noticed Sean still following them, briefly pressing a finger to his temple and ordering the boy to stay behind.

Erik looked at him defiantly, digging his heels into the sand. “I know what this is about, and I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Charles arched a brow, purposefully giving Erik a ‘not mad, just disappointed’ look. “I am not a _child_ , Erik. And you’re not the only one with powers. I don’t need you to sic a guard on me, _especially_ without my knowledge or agreement.”

“Well, now you know.”

“I’m _serious_ , Erik!”

“So am I.”

Despite himself, Charles could tell Erik meant it. Even without reading his mind, Erik’s face was entirely serious, hard and lined with genuine worry. “We have made many enemies, and I don’t doubt we’ll make more. We still don’t know how this pregnancy will affect you. What if you faint again and no one’s there? What if our children affect your telepathy and you can’t defend yourself?” There was a stubborn set to his sharp jaw. “My greatest priority is your safety, always. I don’t care if you don’t like it or think it’s unnecessary. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Erik reached out a hand, setting it on Charles’s soft stomach. “ _All_ of you.”

Charles pursed his lips in annoyance, but he knew that Erik had won. As much as he hated the idea, it would probably be smart to always have someone around in case of an emergency. Still . . . “You don’t get to make decisions _for_ me. We’re a team, Erik. Not just the X-Men, you and me. We do things together or not at all.”

They stared each other down for longer than was probably necessary before Erik quietly nodded. In the next moment, it was as though nothing had happened at all as he smiled playfully. “I know some things we could do together.”

Charles snorted, unable to resist a smile. “And you say I have terrible pick-up lines.”

* * *

The news of their relationship seemed to spread slowly, then all at once. Before, there’d been rumors — why did they still sleep in the same room even once there was enough space for everyone? did they really spend so much time together or did it just seem that way? they’d certainly jumped to make speeches about how wonderful the other was when they were selecting leaders for Genosha, hadn’t they? — but now, there was no doubt. They didn’t bother hiding it. If they wanted to sit so close that they were practically in each other’s laps, they saw no reason not to. If Charles felt like reaching out and wrapping his hand around Erik’s, he held it above the table. When Erik was struck with an urge to kiss him, he simply did so regardless of who was around, leaning over to press soft lips to Charles’s cheek or temple or lips.

The line was drawn one night when they were looking over the plans for what would become _their house_ , perched on the grass with iron fences separating them from the cliff. One moment, Erik was listing the materials they would need, how many trees it would take, how much iron pulled from the mines beneath them. Then he said, casually, “You know, people are going to find out if we just start living together, alone, for no reason.”

At first, Erik’s meaning escaped him. Then, rolling his eyes, the other man pushed the obvious into his head, reminding him that it was not just their powers that people looked down upon.

“Oh,” Charles said dully, wondering how he hadn’t thought of that. “Well . . . they’re going to know anyway, aren’t they? I highly doubt anyone will believe me if I say our children come from mitosis.”

Erik’s chuckle is more of a huff than anything else, over as soon as it began. Despite himself, his hands and shoulders were tense, giving away his thoughts as much as telepathy could. “You could make them believe something else,” he suggested, not looking at Charles. “Make them forget you were ever pregnant. Just two children who lost their parents and—”

“And what?” Charles demanded. “Raise them alone so no one ever knows? Never tell them who their father is? Not live with you. Not love you?” His hand reached out, curling around Erik’s cheek and forcing the other man to face him. “I’m not ashamed, Erik. Not of you or our children.”

“Someone could hurt them,” Erik pointed out, jaw clenched. “Someone could hurt _you_.”

“They won’t. I’d stop them. _You’d_ stop them.” Charles paused. “Wouldn’t you?”

His words had the intended effect. Erik faced him fully, gripping Charles’s forearms. His eyes were deadly serious when he spoke. “I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”

Charles raised a brow.

Erik sighed. “Fine. I will . . . seriously maim anyone who tries to take you from me.”

“I suppose I’ll have to live with that.” Charles pulled him closer, pressing their foreheads together and leaning up to kiss him.

Erik made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat before reaching down and picking Charles up by the thighs, setting him on the table and stepping between his legs. Their kiss swiftly went from slow and gentle to deep and all-consuming, Erik’s hand on the back of Charles’s head pushing them as close as possible as he devoured him. Charles gave back as good as he got, moaning when Erik licked into his mouth, hands traveling down to cup his ass.

Charles was about to telepathically ask him to lock the doors when Erik whispered, “Marry me.”

Charles paused, pulling away just enough to look into Erik’s eyes, still feeling the other man’s stubble scrape against his skin. “What? Erik, you _just_ said—”

“I know what I said. I don’t care.” Erik brushed a strand of hair from his lover’s forehead, staring into Charles’s eyes, bluer than the sea. “I love you. I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about you.” He smiled. “And besides, this is _Genosha_. Who could stop us?”

For a moment, the room was still. Then, beaming, Charles pulled him in for another kiss. “ _I’m_ certainly not going to stop you,” Charles muttered against his lips. Despite himself, he felt tears wet his eyes. “Erik . . .” He thought of years spent with only Raven knowing the truth about him, of a childhood convinced he was going insane before he realized the voices were from _other_ people’s heads, of the brightest mind he’d ever known adrift in the sea. “I’m so glad we’re not alone anymore.”

* * *

So, when Charles found himself the subject of quite a few curious looks and rude thoughts, he paid them no mind. He simply went about his life and duties as though nothing had changed, because it hadn’t. If anyone had a problem, they were free to talk to him about it.

As it was, some people did. The first of whom was a blue-haired girl with a white, shell-like pattern of tattoos on her tanned shoulders. When she walked up to him as he was discussing plans for the new school, Charles briefly skimmed her mind. “Aquamarine?” he said pleasantly. “Erik told me about how you helped when the island was nearly under siege. We all owe you a debt.”

The young woman flushed scarlet, inclining her head in respect. “Thanks, Professor. That means a lot from you.”

He smiled warmly as he always did, Alex looking at her suspiciously from behind him (which had recently become Alex’s typical expression when performing his “guard” duties). “Do you need anything?”

“Um . . .” Charles, naturally stretching his telepathy out, felt her awkwardness and something deeper. Something maybe even she didn’t know was there. Shaking her head at herself, Aquamarine said, “Forget it. Sorry, sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have bothered you . . .”

She tried to walk away, looking down at sandal-clad feet, but Charles reached out to put a light hand on her arm. “Nothing is too small to ask me about. Even if I can’t help, I’ll try to listen.”

Aquamarine shrugged at nothing, rubbing her arm. “It’s just . . What we are . . . there’s nothing wrong with it, right? I mean, you’re good. Everyone knows what you’ve done for Genosha, for mutants. We all know. So it can’t be bad, right? What we are? It’s not wrong?”

For a moment, he thought she meant her mutation. But when he looked deeper into her mind, the real issue became clear. He caught glimpses of shame and self-hatred, deep and internalized. And, clearer than that, memories of watching other girls and later women with curiosity and something else she hadn’t been able to name for the longest time before pushing it deep inside.

Charles tilted his head, eyes softening even further. “There’s nothing wrong with you, dear. Nothing at all. It’s just love, same as for anyone else. And as long as I’m here, no one will be allowed to hurt you for it. I promise.”

Instantly, he could feel her relief. Tears beaded in her eyes. She must have spent so long wondering what was wrong with her that she had these thoughts, if there was something fundamentally wrong with her, if she was alone.

Charles gently brushed the blue hair away from her face, letting out a surprised huff when she threw herself into his arms. He chuckled, patting her back. “You’re not alone. None of us are alone anymore.”

* * *

Of course, it didn’t go as well other times.

A week later, Charles froze when he opened his door and Angel was standing there. She shrugged apologetically, though her expression was anything but. “No one else was available.”

He strongly considered closing the door on her. But there was work to be done. And he _had_ promised Erik.

Giving in, he grabbed his jacket and shut the door behind himself, walking outside with her.

They went most of the day without speaking to each other, Charles wandering from place to place on the island with Angel as his silent guardian in the background. They were walking along one of the new treehouse pathways when she finally spoke. “I am grateful, you know?”

Charles stopped to turn to her. “Come again?”

Angel squirmed, avoiding his eyes. “For giving me another chance? I know I don’t deserve it . . . but I needed it. Most people would’ve just killed us when we showed up. Erik definitely would have.” There was no anger to the thought. Just acceptance and quiet agreement. “I mean, we would’ve deserved it. But you’ve always been different. So . . . thanks.”

Charles looked at her, cautiously optimistic. “Don’t thank me, Angel. I would rather you prove that you’re worthy of it.”

She nodded, her jaw stubbornly set. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Charles was considering just how preemptive it would be to say he was proud of her when he felt a sudden shock of anger and disgust as Angel suddenly reached out and pushed him back, shouting, “GET DOWN!”

Charles scrambled to reach a hand out behind himself as he fell flat on the wooden platform. Angel dove in the opposite direction, rolling away as a ball of green flame sped in between them, shooting past the trees and the forests and into the sky, traveling higher and higher before burning out. Charles had a second to think, _I hope that doesn’t start a fire_ , before realizing he’d just been attacked.

Angel sprung up to her feet on the suspended bridge, grabbing hold of the bar separating the pathway from the ground as she leaned forward, opening her mouth. A ball of acid sped past her lips, sickly smelling and emanating heat.

Charles heard its effect before he saw it. A pained howl rose through the rainforest. In the same instant, pain burst into a nearby mind — the same one he’d sensed a moment ago.

Angel looked at him. “Think we’re gonna need some help getting this guy to a cell.” A beat passed. “And he could probably use a doctor.”

Somehow, the only thing Charles could think was, _Erik is never going to let me live this down._

* * *

The most annoying thing about Genosha, in Charles’s opinion, was that crimes were so rare that on the occasion there was one, the trial quickly became a social event. Combine that with the fact that it was _Charles_ who’d been attacked, and it seemed like everyone on the island showed up, forcing them to move it to the grassy plain just so there was enough space to accommodate everyone. Charles was seriously considering whether it would be a good idea to ban entirely-public trials when Erik showed up, flanked by the remaining X-Men. He had the same expression as when he was facing down missiles or a room full of human councilors — single-minded determination and barely leashed rage.

His eyes softened a fraction when he saw Charles. Not wasting a moment, he walked over to him, caressing Charles’s face and pulling him in for a quick, soft kiss. “Are you alright?”

Charles nodded, covering one of Erik’s hands with his own and resisting the urge to smile like an idiot in front of hundreds of people. “Yes.”

Erik ducked his head, muttering, “ _Gott sei Dank._ ” Then he looked up, and his eyes narrowed.

 _Oh no._ “Erik—”

It was too late. Erik pulled away from Charles’s hand as he marched over to the (now one-handed) man standing in between Angel and Raven. Mike, a green-haired, green-eyed mutant who hadn’t bothered to take a new name, glared at him spitefully. It seemed like he might say or do something for a moment — Charles was certain he intended to spit in Erik’s face — before Erik’s hand shot out, grabbing his bandage-wrapped arm. Raven and Angel immediately let him go, allowing Erik to wrenched him from their grasp, spinning the man around and throwing him to the ground. People gasped in a combination of horror, shock, and delight when Erik followed him down, holding Mike by the neck before immediately punching him in the face.

Charles winced, quickly closing his mind to the man as pain exploded in his cracking jaw. “Erik—” Charles tried, not daring to get much closer as Erik rained hell on the man’s face, his hits growing faster and sloppier and _angrier_. “Erik, you know how I feel about violence!”

 _Don’t care_ , Erik thought, shattering Mike’s nose with a particularly well-aimed fist.

Charles sucked in a breath, lifting his fingers to his temple as he was unable to tune out the pain of bone breaking into dozens of fragments. “Erik, _that’s enough!_ ” And when he still didn’t stop, Charles played a card he hadn’t thought of before, projecting to Erik as loudly as he could, _This stress is not good for the babies!_

 _That_ finally made him stop, arm still raised in the air as he stared down. Moving slowly, Erik gave the green-haired mutant and his swollen, bleeding face one last look of contempt. Then he drove his foot into his stomach as hard as he could and backed away, breathing deeply as he stood. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding.

Erik nodded to Elixir. “Take him to the infirmary. We’ll have the trial _in absentia_.”

“I don’t think—”

“I believe we have enough telepaths here to construct an accurate idea of what happened,” Erik said in a clipped tone that made it clear there would be no further arguments.

Elixir reluctantly nodded, gesturing for a teleporter and one of his nurses to help them to the infirmary. In a flash, they were gone. All eyes were on Erik and Charles, now the only ones standing in the center of the huge crowd. Erik looked around at them, eyes burning.

“I’m sure you all know why your Voice was attacked,” Erik shouted, relying on the wide-open space and Charles to project his voice. “What you _need_ to know is that it doesn’t matter. I don’t _care_ what you think about our relationship. I don’t _care_ about your opinions, whether or not you think it’s wrong or unnatural. Our job is to lead and protect you, and we’re going to do it whether you like us or not. But Genosha would not _exist_ without Charles Xavier. _None of us_ would be here without him. _All of us_ owe him a debt. And this is _not_ a place where you can hurt people because of your prejudices. So get over them. Be better than those that came before you. Or else . . .” He flexed his fingers, grabbing hold of every bit of metal the people around them had on, allowing them to feel his strength. “Find somewhere else to go.”

* * *

While he couldn’t say that the curious or disgusted thoughts _ended_ then, no one came forward after that, too scared to end up on the receiving end of Erik’s violent anger. Charles was just happy that things had finally settled down some. He was coming up on three months, and he had firmly moved from the morning sickness phase to weird cravings. This would have been easier on everyone if they lived somewhere that had French pastries and gherkins readily available. As it was, Azazel had been making a _lot_ of trips to New York.

“I still can’t believe you waited until the absolute last possible moment to tell me you and Erik are fucking,” Raven complained, laying out over a chair with her bare feet raised and eating from a jar of _his_ gherkins. “I’d hit you if you weren’t so delicate right now.”

Charles ignored her, making a mental note to hide his food later. “I’m not _delicate_ , Erik’s just acting like I am. Do you know what I’m doing right now? I’m _picking out a flag_. This is all he wants me to do today! If I try to do anything more complicated, he insists he can handle it on top of the other ten _thousand_ things he already does. He makes sure everyone only gives me mindless, simple tasks now, like I’m a porcelain doll that will shatter if I have to think about irrigation systems or a police force or— oh, I like this one.”

Raven leaned over to see, her head somehow below her legs. “Oh, that’s nice. Simple, but elegant.”

“Yes, I think so too. The purple is good— _stop chuckling!_ ”

Charles was definitely _not_ pouting at his sister’s cruel-hearted mockery of him when someone knocked on the door. Raven, still grinning, swung her legs down and stood up. “I’ve got it. Since I’m on guard duty and all. I’m not pregnant, my life doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, thank you, dear sister,” Charles said with an innocent smile.

Raven shook her head at him before opening the door. Phoebe stood there, her normally cheerful expression blank. “Good morning, Raven. You seem to be an excellent shade of midnight this morning.”

“I try. Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually.” There was something odd about Phoebe’s demeanor. She seemed _wary_ , somehow more nervous than when they’d actually been under attack. “There’s someone on the beach you need to see. Someone new.” After a moment, she added, “Erik will be there.”

Charles arched a brow. Erik rarely ever did that. “Someone important?”

“Definitely.”

Charles sighed, assuming it was some diplomat or representative ready to try lying straight to the face of a telepath. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting. Lead the way, Phoebe.”

Soon, they were headed to the dock of the southern beach, Charles breathing more heavily than he expected. “Oh, I don’t expect I’ll be much fun in a month,” he said, leaning slightly on Raven’s arm. Phoebe pressed a slight hand to his back, offering silent support whenever he needed it.

Erik was already there by the time they arrived, waiting for them. He smiled at Charles, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in for a quick kiss, relieving him of the women. “Love doing that,” he said quietly, delighting in the way they were routinely ignored by everyone else milling around.

Charles rolled his eyes, playful. “Stop preening. Phoebe said it was important.” He turned to the woman in question. “Where are they?”

Phoebe gestured to the end of their newly-built dock. “Right over here, Professor.”

They walked over as a group, Erik still with an arm around Charles. The woman they found there seemed much less like a politician and more a harried nanny, brown hair fixed into a messy ponytail and what looked like an old tomato sauce stain on the collar of her dress. At her legs stood two children around the age of seven or eight, one of them a girl holding onto her hand, and the other a boy that she had to actively hold onto to keep him from diving straight into the water.

Charles smiled as he always did, but he was sure she could see his confusion. He quickly dipped into her mind, looking for a name.

He froze. And stayed frozen, standing there in genuine shock after what he’d seen.

The woman ignored him entirely, turning to face— “Erik.”

The other man stopped in his tracks, frowning. “Do I know you?” She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her face.

Charles clutched his hand, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

The woman’s eyes burned with anger. Phoebe lurked in the background as Raven and Erik stood in confusion and Charles was half-catatonic. “Do you remember me?”

Erik took half a step back, growing more and more suspicious. His hand mindlessly reached out to rest on Charles’s stomach. “Should I?”

The woman reared back, almost as though she’d been struck. Her lip curled.

“This is Ms. Maximoff, Erik,” Charles said suddenly, his voice low and distant. “Magda Maximoff.”

“Oh,” Erik said with a frown. That _did_ sound familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember why . . .

Magda huffed suddenly, pulling her children around and in front of her so they were facing the other adults. “These are Wanda and Pietro. Your _children_ , Erik.”

“. . . Oh.”

 _Now_ he remembered.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gott sei Dank = Thank God (German)
> 
> I thought I was taking a long time with this chapter, but then I realized it was 6000 words, so maybe I have a different problem. A not shutting up problem.


	9. Probability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik have a nice chat with Magda.

“Charles—” Erik stumbled over a tree root, cursing under his breath as he ran to catch up. “ _Charles!_ ”

The telepath had completely ignored him as they left the beach, only mumbling a few words to Magda and her children ( _children,_ they hadn’t even _known_ ) to point them in the direction of a shelter and ask Raven to get them registered before walking away. Erik wanted to follow him immediately, but it hadn’t been possible. Magda had been staring at him expectantly, the twins watched him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, and he had to say _something_. In the end, he’d just said that he had something he had to attend to, but they would speak later (he invited them to _dinner_ , what was he _thinking_ ) then ran after Charles while trying very hard not to look like he was running.

He ducked through the rainforest trees, feeling scattered raindrops start to fall on his hands. He ran, fingers brushing against Charles’s arm. “Charles, I didn’t know—”

“It’s _fine_ , Erik,” Charles grit out in a tone that made it abundantly clear that nothing was fine. “I’m not upset.” It didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. Regardless, he kept on, trying to brush him off.

Erik finally passed him, grabbing the other mutant by the arms and holding him in place, though he loosened his hold slightly when Charles gave him a look. “I did know Magda. I met her eight years ago, while I was tracking Shaw. She was the niece of a Romani man who survived the camps. I thought he might know something, and I met him through Magda. The lead didn’t pan out.” He tilted Charles’s head up by the chin so they were facing each other fully. “I only knew her for a week. I had no idea there were children.”

Charles stared at him, willing himself to be angrier. It didn’t work, of course. He’d never been good at being angry. Least of all at Erik. “I don’t even know why I’m upset,” he muttered. “I just looked into her mind and something snapped in me.” What was it he’d feared? That Erik was going to leave, with this woman from his past or without her? Did he fear for his own children, who he already knew Erik was devoted to? He knew his thoughts were illogical, but that didn’t keep them from building.

Erik cradled his face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “Nothing is going to take me from you, do you understand?” He covered Charles’s stomach with his hand. “ _These_ are my children. Our family is my priority. Nothing is more important than this.” His pale eyes were terrified, more scared than he could ever be in a fight. “Do you believe me?”

Reluctantly, Charles nodded. He tried to think of the situation objectively. His face crumpled. “I’m being _terrible_.”

Erik frowned. “What?”

“Those poor children! I’ve been _awful_ , they must be so confused!” He nodded to himself, quickly coming to a decision. “We have to talk to them. We’ll have Magda over, talk to her, decide what to do. You should spend time with the children, and we’ll need to enroll them in the school and make sure they’re learning to control their powers . . .”

Erik’s eyes lit up. “They have powers?”

“Oh, of course _that’s_ what you heard.”

* * *

Gossip spread quickly on the island. By the time he’d finished lunch, everyone seemed to know who Magda was and how she knew Erik. They stared at Charles with a mixture of curiosity, pity, and genuine concern, muttering accusations against _that woman_ under their breath. Charles ignored them, carefully tuning their thoughts out so he didn’t have to hear their speculation. He successfully avoided confronting anyone directly before he returned to the base at night. It was only then that he realized how he’d managed it — they were waiting.

Raven was his first attacker, wrapping her arms around him in a hug and pulling him into the makeshift living room before he could escape. There, several more people sat in waiting, including Sean, Alex, Angel, Aquamarine, and, perhaps most bizarrely of all, Azazel.

Charles might have walked right back out (or at least tried to) if it weren’t for the plate of honeyed figs sitting on the coffee table, which Raven _knew_ he’d been craving incessantly, that traitor. Disgusted by his own weakness, Charles gave in and began hoarding the sweetly-roasted fruits for himself as the others talked to and over him.

Sandwiched between himself and Azazel (who seemed _far_ too comfortable being so close to his sister), Raven was shaking her head in open anger. “I can’t believe Erik would treat you like this. And when he _knows_ you’re in such a delicate condition.”

Charles gave her a look, knowing exactly how much she was enjoying seeing him so “delicate”. Still, her concern was genuine. “Erik hasn’t done _anything_ ,” he insisted. “It’s just unfortunate circumstances.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Raven said harshly. “If I had a boyfriend’s ex show up with two kids in tow, there’d be a fight.”

“You would win,” Azazel said in a way that made Charles think this was their way of _flirting_. _Oh, I do not like that._

Alex nodded in agreement with Raven. “If someone makes a play for your girl, they have to be ready to face the music. Rip her hair out.”

“First of all, I’m going to tell Erik you called him _my girl_. I assure you the funeral will be tasteful.”

“‘Preciate it.”

“Secondly, I’m not upset with Erik. Or Magda, for that matter.” He was surprised to find he meant it. His emotions were still a whirlpool spinning dangerously below the surface of his mind, but his thoughts were purposefully clear and logically. “No one’s done anything wrong, it’s just a complicated situation. My first priority is making sure the children adjust well. They didn’t ask for any of this.” That was his anchor, his guiding point reminding him that this wasn’t a slight against himself, but rather a problem to be solved. He’d only seen Pietro and Wanda for a few minutes, but he knew that they were mutants, and that they only vaguely understood what was happening to them. They needed help, guidance. They needed their father. “I see absolutely no reason we can’t all get along just fine.”

“Wow, you're being _really_ calm about this, Professor,” Sean said, shaking his head.

Angel nodded her agreement, seeming genuinely worried despite her slight smirk. “I don’t know, teach. I’d be worried that she was going to try and steal my man _and_ my crown.”

“Well, first of all Angel, I don't actually have a crown. But even if I did, it wouldn't matter because my position is not contingent on my relationship with Erik.”

“I mean, I _guess_ ,” Raven said begrudgingly. “It would be weird, though. If he just decided to get back with her and meanwhile you're still there, pining, trying to raise your children on your own while co-ruling a country with the man who threw you away like yesterday's trash.”

“. . . Well—”

“God, can you imagine how awkward it would be if that happened and you still lived here?” Sean asked, seeming oblivious to Charles’s growing discomfort. “Seeing them every day with their little family, trying not to imagine what it would be like if that was you with Erik the way you always thought it would be, but knowing it'll never happen—”

“SEAN!” Charles snapped, surprising himself with how angry it came out. He blinked, looking around at the others, who stared at him in shock.

All except Raven, who gave him a triumphant look. “See, I knew you were upset.”

* * *

“We need to present a united front,” Erik said seriously as he floated silverware over to the table. “We can’t allow ourselves to be divided.”

“Erik, it’s _dinner_ , not a battle, just sit down.” Charles set out glasses and went to pour himself some wine before Erik stopped him.

“Remember that report Hank showed us about alcohol affecting development.”

Charles scowled and put the bottle down. “Damn science. Just has to ‘keep moving forward’. I know for a _fact_ that my mother drank and smoke all throughout her pregnancy, and I’m fine.”

“Let’s see if you still feel that way when your hair starts falling out.”

Charles sucked in a fearful breath. “Don’t _say_ things like that, Erik, the stress isn’t good for the babies!”

Before Erik could shoot back, the door knocked. Raven walked in with Magda and the twins trailing behind her. She gave Charles a sour look. “Your guests are here.”

“Thank you, Raven,” Charles said, giving the newcomers a smile which only Pietro returned. “Are you going to stay—”

“Can’t,” Raven said, already rounding back to the door. “Got a date.”

“What— with _who?_ Raven!”

His sister waved to him before shutting the door. Then they were alone with their guests.

Charles and Erik stared at Magda, who returned their gaze. Erik’s arms were stiff at his side. Charles fiddled with a napkin before smiling. “Why don’t you come and sit down? There’s nothing too fancy, so I hope you like chicken and rice. It’s about all Erik trusts me to cook anyway.”

“I’m still not sure about the chicken,” Erik quipped, stepping out of the way so they could pass by. He blinked, doing a double-take when the silver-haired child sped past him, causing a small breeze in the kitchen and makeshift dining room as he ran to the table.

“ _Pietro_ ,” Magda said harshly. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t run inside.”

“But I’m not allowed to run _outside_ either!”

“Because someone might _see_ —” Magda stopped herself, taking a deep breath. “Just don’t do it.”

Faced with the threat of an awkward silence, Charles quickly poured each of the children a glass of orange juice as he spoke. “It doesn’t matter if anyone sees you using your gifts here,” he told them. Wanda was staring at him, refusing to sit as she hid behind her mother’s leg. Magda cast a look at her every now and then, but so far hadn’t made an attempt to remove her. “Everyone on Genosha is different. I’m sure a lot of people would be delighted to see what you can do.”

“They’re scary,” Wanda whispered, the first time Charles had heard her speak at all.

“Really?” Charles quickly shot Erik a look when he felt the other man’s irritation, mentally reminding him that they were _children_ who needed to be taught about these things, not discouraged. “How so?”

“They’re _weird_ ,” Pietro loudly inserted, speaking around the bread in his mouth. “One of them is a demon. Like, from a cartoon.”

“Do you mean Azazel?” Charles asked in amusement. “Red skin, pointy tail, blue eyes?”

“Yeah!”

Charles chuckled. “Yes, I know him.” As he poured water for the table, Magda finally managed to coax Wanda into a seat, sitting her between Erik and Pietro. Erik seemed mildly panicked before Charles subtly brushed a thumb over the back of his fingers, reassuring him. Magda herself sat by her son, half-looking at him every few seconds, tiredly keeping an eye on the small ball of energy. Charles gestured for Erik to pass out food to everyone, except Pietro, who had already availed himself of everything that would fit on his plate. “In fact, Azazel has been a great aid to Genosha since he arrived. I’ve come to trust him more than I would have thought.” Granted, this was not a high bar to pass, but they didn’t need to know that. “Many mutants look different from humans, but they’re no more dangerous than anyone else. I don’t think that having horns or purple skin makes anyone more different than if they had blue or green eyes, or blonde or red hair.” He passed the bread to Wanda, who took it warily. “If it makes you feel any better, I could introduce you to a few mutants like Azazel. They’re very nice people.” He hastily added, “If that’s alright with your mother, of course.”

Magda gave him a long, impartial look before abruptly nodding. “It’s fine.”

Charles grinned brightly, the smile he used to put people to ease, the one Erik said could make people fall in love with him even if they didn’t want to. Magda’s returning expression was strained, but he took comfort in the fact that Wanda managed the shyest of shy smiles, the first time her expression had hanged since he first saw her.

Erik was sitting so close to him that their arms were touching. Charles couldn’t tell if he just wanted to be close or if he was trying to avoid the others as much as possible. Charles shot him a look, telepathically adding, _Be nice._

_I wasn’t aware I was being mean._

_You usually aren’t_ , Charles sniped. _They’re children. They’re confused. Be . . . twenty percent more nice._

Erik grumbled, but didn’t argue for once. They passed a few minutes in only _slightly_ awkward silence before Pietro got bored and demanded, loudly, “What do you do?”

Erik turned to frown at him. “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to have powers? Like, do you know karate?”

Erik raised a brow. “I don’t know karate. I _do_ know krazy.”

Pietro laughed as though this were the cleverest bit of wordplay he’d ever heard. Considering how quiet his mother and sister were being, it might have been.

Despite himself, Erik smiled slightly. “I _do_ have powers, actually.” He reached out with his gift, looking for something he could demonstrate with. “Can I borrow your watch, Charles?”

Completely forgetting his pleas for Erik to be nicer, Charles clutched his wrist defensively. “But this is _my_ watch. You made it for me.”

“Yes, and I can fix it if I have to.” He held his hand, giving his partner a look that was half-expectant, half-playful. “Please.”

Charles hesitated a few moments before sighing and unfastening the watch, removing the timepiece from the leather band. “Fine. But I expect it back in one piece.”

“Three at the most,” Erik promised in the most unreassuring way possible before floating the watch over.

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “Groovy!”

Erik winced in the same way he did whenever Charles used that word, but hid it quickly enough. Apart from the band, the only part of the watch that wasn’t made of metal was the glass encasing it. Erik pressed his hands together before pulling them apart, watching as the timepiece mirrored his actions, neat layers of small, intricate pieces unfolding at once. The glass circle slid away from the rest, and Erik caught it in his hand before returning his attention to those he could sense through his powers.

The watch was made of steel. It wasn’t normally fine or delicate enough for such precise work. But Erik had made it with his powers, selecting and purifying only the finest pieces of metal before shaping each one into what he needed. It was careful, slow-going work that his forceful powers were poorly suited to, the sort of thing he wouldn’t have bothered with before meeting Charles. It was always harder to make something than to destroy it.

Leaning forward on his arm, Erik twisted his hand, sending the steel gears and planes up and down in a twisting spiral, giving them one last flourishing spin before they all fell back into place. Carefully popping the glass back in, he handed the timepiece back to Charles. “A few of the gears were wearing down. I fixed it.”

“My hero,” Charles drawled sarcastically, fixing the leather band back to the clock and putting his watch back on.

Pietro’s jaw was slack, one hand still holding up a fork pierced with chicken as he stared in awe. “I want to do stuff like that! How come I don’t get to use my powers?”

“Who said you can’t—” Erik said before Magda shot him a dark look. _Right._ “When you start school here, there will be people to help you hone your powers.”

“What?”

Everyone turned sharply at the unexpected noise, facing the girl who had been still as a statue until that point. “We’re staying here?” Wanda asked.

The room turned silent. Charles lowered his eyes, setting his hands on the table. “Children, I think that Erik and I need to speak to your mother privately.” When both of them tried to argue, Charles raised a hand to his temple, quickly silencing them. “There’s a room ready for both of you. I’m sure your mother will want to speak to you in the morning once we’re all well rested.”

Erik, Charles, and Magda all stared at each other as the children slid down from their chairs and slinked off down a hallway, not seeming to question how they knew where to go. All the silverware on the table vibrated before Charles put a hand over Erik’s, stopping him. _Breathe easy, darling._ Erik obeyed, mostly because he didn’t feel like fighting with Charles too. “Why did you come here, Magda?”

She was chewing on a piece of bread when he asked. She kept on until it had all but disintegrated in her mouth. When she was done, Magda still didn’t speak. Irritated, Charles looked into her mind for the first time since she’d arrived.

And when he did, he was suddenly, furiously, _righteously_ angry on the twins’ behalf. His tone was clipped when he spoke, betraying his emotions. “You’re going to leave them here.”

Magda stared at him for a long time before breaking. “It was hard enough before. No husband, money, hardly any family. We had to move around constantly just so they weren’t taken away. I didn’t even want children, but . . . well, what was I supposed to do?”

Charles could tell that those feelings hadn’t gone away when the twins were older.

Erik didn’t need telepathy to know.

“But then their . . . _powers_ started.” Suddenly, she looked as tired as she felt, dark circles under her eyes, crows-feet and lines that made her seem older than her age. “I can’t tell you how many times I thought someone would see something. We moved twice as much in the past _year_ as we did for the six before. And Pietro never understands why he needs to hide, and Wanda’s sullen—”

“I wasn’t aware being a parent was supposed to be _easy_ ,” Charles snapped. He’d never claimed to have a truly terrible childhood — he’d have to be delusional to think it held anything even mildly resembling a candle to the hell Erik had been put through at a young age — but he knew what it was like to be the child who was left behind by their parents, the one who was rarely seen and never heard. The last strands of his mother’s affection had died with his father; her second husband was worse. Charles learned from a young age to be invisible because he knew that his mother wouldn’t fight for him, and would have just as happily dropped him on a stranger’s doorstep and said he was their problem now if she’d ever been sober enough to think of it. 

“Well, no one said it would be this hard!” Magda snapped back before visibly stopping to calm herself. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep them safe, and I can’t . . . I just _can’t_.” Her hands were shaking. She grabbed her wine glass and took a long drink. It didn’t calm her. “You said this is a place for— whatever you are. They’ll be safe if I leave them here?”

Charles scoffed. “You say that as though you haven’t already made up your mind.”

The three of them stewed in charged silence. Then Erik spoke. “They have a place here. Of course they do. They’re mutants, and my children. Nothing, no one, will be allowed to hurt them.” His back straightened further, spine turning to steel. “But this isn’t daycare. You can’t leave and expect to take them back when it’s _convenient_ for you. If they’re here, they’re my children.”

“It will only upset them worse if we’re constantly going back and forth,” Charles agreed quietly. His voice was so cold it surprised himself. “I’m going to have my lawyers meet with us. I’ll see to it you can visit on occasion, but the children aren’t leaving Genosha until they’re old enough to make that decision for themselves. This is the safest place for them. The _best_ place. And isn’t that what we all want? You know.” He reached over to take the wine bottle and set it to the side. “For the children.”  
  



	10. Chaos Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Wanda bond.

The day that Magda left was one of the hardest days of Charles’s life.

He wasn’t sad to see her go — not by a long shot — but it was impossible to ignore how hard it was on the twins. Pietro, so full of childish energy even in the short time Charles had known him, cried and clung to his mother’s leg for as long as he could, not seeming to care that his actions were better suited to someone younger than himself. Wanda said nothing at all for a long time, simply staring at Magda from behind Erik’s leg until it was time for her to leave. Only then did Wanda mutter a half-hearted, “Bye, Mama,” before immediately returning to her silence, one tiny hand gripping Erik’s far larger one with an anguish that betrayed her quiet facade.

Magda looked at each of her children in turn, a pained, grief-filled look in her eyes. For a moment, she doubted herself. Then she saw Pietro’s silver hair and the faint traces of red light in Wanda’s eyes, and she remembered. “Take care of them.”

Erik nodded shortly. “We will.”

Magda hesitated for a moment, brought up short by the _We_. But she left, turning away and boarding a boat on its way to the States. She did not look back.

That night, they settled some of the twins’ clothes and toys into their new room. But though Magda had thought to bring most of their stuff, it still wasn’t a lot. The bedroom seemed painfully dull and sparse for children. Charles made a mental note to talk to Erik about it.

But there was nothing to do for it now. He made sure the twins were comfortable before making to leave. “Try to get as much rest as you can tonight. You’re starting school tomorrow, and I expect to hear only good things—”

“Mister Xavier?” Pietro asked, the quietest Charles had heard him since he arrived. “Did Mama leave because she’s mad at us? I know I’m annoying, but do you think she’ll come back if I try to be good?”

Charles had never thought he’d be able to pinpoint the exact moment his heart broke. Pushing aside his own feelings, he knelt beside Pietro’s bed. “Darling, this is not your fault in the slightest. None of this was done to punish you. _Either_ of you. Your mother brought you here because this is a good place for mutants. A _safe_ place. It’s hard now, but I swear you’re going to be very happy here.”

Pietro nodded, but Charles could tell he didn’t really believe him. “Whatever.”

Charles tilted his head sadly, reaching out to brush loose strands of metallic hair from Pietro’s forehead. “Everything will be better soon. I promise.”

 _Take care of them._ Though Charles hadn’t been asked, he silently vowed to do so, promising himself that he would love Magda’s children as his own. They _would_ be happy because he wouldn’t let anything else bad happen to them. They would never be abandoned again.

* * *

Things did not get better immediately. Though Charles was eternally optimistic, Erik liked to believe that he saw things as they really were. And as it was, Wanda and Pietro went through their day listlessly, quietly obeying but deprived of the enthusiasm that should have been theirs by the right of childhood.

It was worse for Wanda. Pietro could be distracted by an impressive display of power or training or anything with sugar in it. And, as the weeks piled on, he seemed to adjust to life on Genosha, making fast friends with other mutants his age and exalting in finally being allowed to use his abilities in full view of everyone. But Wanda was blatantly miserable and did not even have the strength to hide it. She played with her food unless ordered to eat it and gave monotonous, one-word answers when Charles or Erik tried to ask about her day. Her powers sounded impressive — probability and chaos manipulation — but she could hardly use them no matter what her teachers tried.

Finally, even Charles seemed at a lost. “Maybe I can fix it,” he said thoughtfully one evening as Erik laid with his ear pressed to Charles’s stomach in the hope of feeling something, even though Elixir told them it would be weeks or even months before that happened. “Just slightly tweak her emotions so she can move on faster, nothing too drastic—”

“ _No_ ,” Erik said when he understood Charles’s meaning, sitting up to look at him. “She’s a child, Charles, she wouldn’t even truly understand what you were asking.”

The uncomfortable look on Charles’s face suggested he hadn’t really planned on _asking_ , but Erik ignored it for the time being. “I’ll try to talk to her,” he said, coming to the decision with the sort of finality that he knew Charles wouldn’t challenge. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.” What else, he didn’t know. He only knew that they had to do it. Wanda and Pietro were unexpected, but they were his responsibility now, and he refused to sit on his hands and watch them waste away.

* * *

“You’re not going to classes today, Wanda,” Erik informed her at breakfast the next morning. “I’m taking the day off. We’re going to work on your powers together. You’ve been neglecting them.”

She nodded in silence, pushing her eggs around her plate before Charles compelled her to eat them.

There was a thin river that cut through the rainforest, starting at a high point on the cliffs and eventually opening out into the ocean. Father and daughter walked alongside the water, deep into the greenery of the forest and away from everyone else before Erik stopped. “This will do.” They stood facing each other, the river full from the rains of the night before, the sky thick with clouds. Erik gestured with a flourish. “Show me.”

Wanda, small and too tired for her age, stared at him before awkwardly thrashing her hands about, a few tendrils of red power wrapping loosely around her fingers before disappearing. Erik waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

“Well, that wasn’t very impressive.”

Wanda’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment. “I can’t just _do it_ ,” she muttered. “It just happens.”

“No it doesn’t,” Erik said, as unyielding as iron. “They’re your abilities and you have to control them. Not the other way around. Try again.”

Wanda fumbled her way through a few more fruitless attempts before Erik let her stop. She glared at him spitefully. “See? I can’t do it.”

Erik shook his head. “You have a fundamental misunderstanding of your powers. They seem like something that just _happened_ to you. But they’re not. They’re a _part of you_ , as real as your own body and mind. They’re like a muscle. If they’re not responding when you call on them, then it means something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with _you_ , but that doesn’t mean nothing’s wrong.” He sat down on a tall rock so they were at eye-level. “What did you feel when your mother left?”

Wanda flinched, dark brown eyes filling with pain that refused to be ignored. “What?”

“Your mother, the only parent you’d known for nearly eight years, she left you and your brother on an island with a man she barely knew and another she didn’t. I suspect that made you feel _something_.”

Wanda blinked away tears, her shoulders hunched as her body tried to make itself smaller. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because it’s true.” He knelt in front of her, gently tilting her chin so she had to look at him. “You’re hurting, Wanda. And pain doesn’t go away if you ignore it. You have to feel it. All of it.”

Slumping forward, Wanda scrunched her eyes shut as the tears finally escaped them. “Why did she leave? I tried to be good. Why didn’t I try harder?”

“Why your mother left has everything to do with her and nothing to do with you,” Erik said quietly. “But that doesn’t make it easier.”

Wanda let her face droop to the ground, lips trembling. “I _hate_ her,” she said suddenly, clenching her hands into fists. “I want her to be here so I can hit and scream at her.”

“Louder.”

“I _hate her!_ ” Wanda shouted, her fists glowing electric-red as her eyes flashed violently. Birds squawked as a tree branch suddenly separated from its trunk, falling to the forest floor below with a loud _thud_.

Erik nodded encouragingly. “That’s it. Keep going.”

“Why did she leave?” Wanda demanded, no longer speaking to Erik, but giving voice to the quiet thoughts that had plagued her when she hadn’t been able to repress them. “I didn’t want her to go! I want her to come back!” Soon, she was crying so hard that it was difficult to understand what she was saying, hiccuping in between words. “I want my family back! I want to go home! It’s too hot here! It’s hot and wet and the food is weird and I don’t know anyone and I hate her, I hate her, _I HATE HER!_ ” Her voice broke painfully. “Why did she leave us? Why does she hate me?”

Branches snapped and fell to the ground, birds cried out as the wind turned against them, and insects found themselves nose-diving into the river of their odds of doing so drastically increased, spurred on by the anger of an abandoned little girl. It wasn’t long before Wanda gave up on speech entirely, clutching Erik’s shirt as she cried into his shoulder, eyes flashing red as she inflicted her emotions on the world around them. It was the first time she ever hugged him. “I don’t know . . .” She coughed, her words broken up by painful sobs. “. . . what to do!”

“I don’t either,” Erik admitted for the first time. He hadn’t known that Wanda and Pietro existed. They were a gift, but an unexpected one that you felt awkward receiving because you didn’t know what to do with it. He wanted to be a father, but how did you parent someone after missing out on the first seven years of their life? He wanted to comfort them, but he didn’t know how, or if he was even allowed. He did not have Charles’s gentle touch or the understanding that came so easily to him. He only had this — pain and rage and grief.

But if that was all he had, then he would damn sure put it to good use. “But we’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Later, when Wanda had unintentionally cleared a spot by the river of rocks and grass and was sitting on the ground in genuine exhaustion, Erik took out a small packet from his pocket. Genosha was woefully lacking in proper wrapping paper, so he’d just wrapped it in old newspapers and some string that he’d scrounged up. He leaned forward, handing it to his daughter. “Here. I made this for you.”

Despite the gift’s lackluster appearance, Wanda took it with great care and trepidation, carefully folding it over in her hands. “What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Wanda did just that, slowly undoing the string and paper until she was holding the bare gift in her hands. Her eyes widened as she turned the bracelet over. “What is it?”

Erik was tempted to just say “bracelet”, but he knew what she meant. “Copper and steel,” he explained, watching as light glinted off the twisting bands of metal. “I thought you should have it since . . .” There were several practical reasons he could list — the unique piece of metal would help him keep an eye on her, he could lift her by it if she fell and needed help, it would make her easily identifiable to the other residents of Genosha — but instead he just said, “You’re my daughter.”

This time, Wanda’s tears weren’t of sadness or anger. “Thanks, Dad.”

Erik smiled. “We’re German, _Schatz_. Call me Papa.”

* * *

Charles arched a brow when they came home in time for dinner, taking in Erik’s tear-and-snot stained shirt and Wanda’s red-rimmed eyes. But before he could say anything, Wanda walked right up to him and quietly asked, “Professor Charles, can I have some of the lemonade you made yesterday?”

Charles quickly squashed down his surprise. “Of course you can, dear,” he said, ignoring the fact that Wanda had only drank water since she arrived. “Do you want me to get it or can you?”

“I can do it,” she said, passing by him.

Charles watched as she disappeared into the kitchen before whipping around to face Erik, who smiled slyly in return. “I take it today went well?”

Erik shrugged. “I honestly don’t know if I could say that. But I feel like we had a breakthrough.”

As soon as he’d finished speaking, a crash sounded from the kitchen. Erik leaned against a wall nonchalantly as Charles ran to the other room, shrieking at what he found. “Also, she can use her powers now.”  
  



	11. Body Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genosha steadily progresses, along with Charles's pregnancy.

“Everything seems to be progressing nicely.”

Charles, spread out on the infirmary bed once more, was glad that they were finally going to have a proper hospital up and running soon (although he didn’t look forward to the prospect of having more cold gel squirted onto his stomach). Erik sat perched on a chair beside him, staring at the sonogram screen with the sort of rapt attention he usually reserved for a particularly impressive feat of metallokinesis.

“You’re halfway through now,” Elixir continued, “twenty weeks.”

“Already?” Charles asked, stunned. The blood drained from his face. It had seemed easy for time to pass him by, simply crossing off each week in his planner, but this was the first time it struck him just how far they’d come. “But we don’t even have a crib yet, or clothes, or— oh my God, _Erik_! Our house doesn’t have any furniture!”

“It will soon,” Erik said easily, having decided early on that only one of them could lose their mind at a time or else they’d both go insane. “The house would be ready by now if you weren’t so picky about materials.”

Charles scoffed. “Well, excuse me for wanting things done _properly_ , Erik.”

Elixir, by now used to their affectionate banter, simply moved right on with the next thing on his list. “We can schedule a c-section for forty weeks now.”

Erik, looking away from Charles, sat up straighter, a serious look in his eyes. “Is that safe?”

Elixir paused before answering. “As safe as anything. You have to understand, this is uncharted territory in some ways, but in others, it’s stuff we’ve been doing for decades. And there will be other doctors assisting who specialize in obstetrics and midwifery.” This was the result of a new initiative to bring over certified doctors for a period of years to train and teach mutants until they had enough medical professionals of their own to be safe. Everyone was surprised when Erik of all people spearheaded the project, but Charles knew that it had been a huge worry off his mind once they’d managed to contract an obstetrician willing to work with them.

“The procedure won’t take more than an hour,” Elixir informed them. “We’ll use spinal anesthesia, which will numb you from the waist down. _Yes_ ,” he said before Erik could ask, “this is a very safe and common technique. We’ll make a horizontal incision across the lower abdomen and then another to the uterus. We’ll remove the twins and stitch both incisions closed; I’ll speed it up with my healing, so there’ll barely even be a scar. If they’re healthy, then there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to hold them after only a few minutes.” He gestured to the sonogram machine. “You know you’re far enough along to see the genders if you’d like.”

“Yes!” Erik said at the exact same time as Charles told him, “No.”

Erik glanced at Charles before biting his inner cheek. “. . . no.”

* * *

“Why are you pregnant?” Pietro asked suddenly.

Charles blinked, turning away from the cardboard box full of books he’d been about to pick up. “Well, that’s not very polite, now is it Pietro?”

The seven-year-old gave a highly exaggerated sigh before asking, in a much quieter voice, “Why are you pregnant, _please?_ ”

That was not entirely correct, but Charles decided to reward the effort. “So that I can have a baby. Two, as a matter of fact.”

“My teacher said that only mommies could have babies.”

Charles frowned, quickly skimming Pietro’s mind to be sure that it was one of his old _human_ teachers that had said that and no one on Genosha. Appeased, he told him, “Normally that’s true, but you know how everyone in Genosha has special abilities?” Pietro nodded. “Well, one of mine is that I can have children. That’s all it is.”

“Okay . . .” Pietro said slowly, rolling the idea around in his head. “But then who’s the mommy?”

He was so, _so_ tempted to say “Erik”, but he knew he’d be paying for it if he did. “Well, there isn’t one. Instead, there will be two daddies, your father and I. That means the new babies will be your little siblings.”

Pietro’s eyes widened, the idea clearly not having occurred to him before then. “Can I play with them when they’re born?”

“. . . I’m sure you’ll be able to when they’re bigger. Newborns are really just little potatoes in blankets, they’re not much fun until later.”

Pietro laughed, swinging his legs from his position at the kitchen table. Charles gave him a smile. “Do you want to help move stuff to the new house?”

Pietro quickly nodded, eager to help. Charles grabbed a few of his philosophy books from the box and passed them over. Pietro stumbled in place, but quickly regained his balance. “Don’t run too fast,” Charles reminded him, “and don’t hit anyone.”

“That was an accident!”

“I don’t believe that and neither do you.”

Pouting, eyes bright, Pietro sped off with his books while Charles silently hoped that no one died on his way. He was about to pick up the remaining books himself when a quiet _poof_ sounded. While he was still turning around, a set of blood-red hands appeared, lifting the box from his hands.

“Raven says you should not be lifting things in such delicate condition,” Azazel said loftily, using his tail to pick up a vase.

Charles sighed. “Well, tell Raven that I am not _delicate_ — wait, since when are you close to Raven?”

To which Azazel poofed back out of existence, taking Charles’s books with him.

This became something of a pattern in the weeks to come. As Charles’s condition grew more and more apparent, the people around him became more nervous. Suddenly, he was not allowed to bend over or pick up anything heavier than a kitten (and Erik even grumbled about that). It was almost funny . . . until it began to interfere with his work.

That started when, one morning at breakfast while Charles devoured his French toast, Erik informed him that he was meeting with the French ambassador that day.

Charles stared at him in open disbelief. “Erik, you _hate_ diplomacy.”

“It’s . . . not that bad.”

Charles would have laughed if the situation weren’t so _not_ funny. “Give me a single reason why you should do it instead of me.”

Erik looked him right in the eye and said, “Stress is bad for the babies.”

Charles stared back at him. “You will be lucky to survive the next eighteen weeks.”

Erik chuckled, clearly underestimating the danger he was in. “Don’t worry about it, Liebling. Just focus on—” seeing Charles shoot him an _incredibly_ pointed look as he was about to say “our children”, he swiftly changed course— “relaxing and staying healthy.” Before Charles could shoot back, Erik said, less jokingly, “You’re a _man_ carrying _twins_. I have every right to be cautious.”

Charles _truly_ hated it when Erik was right. 

Still, it was easier said than done. No one else seemed to be up to the work Charles did. Raven was too irritable and uncaring towards politics. Hank was too timid despite his frightening blue appearance. Phoebe restricted herself to handling matters with the UN and either knitting or planting fig trees (usually while singing). Erik was very good at leading and convincing his own people to do things, but his idea of diplomacy was everyone else giving him what he wanted and then being grateful that he hadn’t killed them all (yet).

Really, Charles would have returned to his political duties _much_ sooner if his husband weren’t so insanely stubborn. He finally insisted after the fourth time that Erik said he _preferred_ the human ambassadors scared out of their minds. They glared at each other over a plate of honeyed figs (his most persistent craving) until Erik gave in.

Of course, despite his triumphant smirk, Charles couldn’t ignore that Erik had a point. For starters, none of his suits fit anymore. Instead, he wore white pants two sizes larger than he’d worn a year ago and a loose, embroidered dark blue tunic that didn’t _quite_ hide his stomach, but definitely deemphasized it. The plain silver band on his left hand was the same color as his watch. He didn’t quite feel sick like he had at the beginning, but now his back never seemed to stop aching and his feet complained whenever he walked for more than two minutes.

Regardless, there was work to be done, and no one to leave it to. He invited a pair of American ambassadors to lunch at the new Imperial Residence (as Erik had loftily named it) to discuss a trade agreement. Out loud, it was going well.

But then, that was both the advantage and disadvantage of being a telepath.

The mutants of Genosha had grown used to his relationship with Erik and rounded stomach. The most common reaction from his people after the confusion had been protectiveness (something he appreciated, but _really_ did not need more of).

But the _humans_. They were curious about him — curious and disgusted. It was one thing for the other mutants to come around. Besides the fact that most of them understood that sometimes mutant bodies simply _did things_ that you then had to put up with, Charles was their leader, their _friend_. Was it not Charles and Erik and their X-Men who saved those first two hundred mutants who were enslaved on Genosha? Was it not them who created this sanctuary — this _home_ — for all of them? If Charles Xavier told them that what existed between himself and Erik wasn’t wrong, but rather as good and loving and _right_ as any relationship was capable of being, then most would rather reshape their own views and opinions than turn from him. And besides, so many mutants knew what it was like to be feared and hated and hurt for something you couldn’t change — _didn’t want_ to change. It was an adjustment for many, but they _did_ adjust.

The human ambassadors . . . not so much. 

By the end of that first lunch, Charles was starting to wish he’d either been much more or much _less_ ethical when it came to using his telepathy. He couldn’t help but see the way they viewed him, hear their thoughts as they obscenely speculated about Erik fucking him or the slowly growing children in his belly. Erik terrified them, but they also _respected_ him. He was tall, imposing, and absolutely radiated authority wherever he went. Charles was friendly, soft-featured, didn’t _quite_ reach average height, and currently had two infants growing inside him. It wasn’t hard for them to draw some (occasionally disgusting) conclusions. 

But he would have put up with all of that . . . if not for a few stray thoughts. 

_wonder if the fetus is going to be a freak too when it’s born / probably / be interesting to take it home and see what makes them tick / cut it out and—_

It took a minute for Charles to come back to himself. By the time he did, his cup was a mess of broken porcelain and steaming hot tea onto the lovely hand-crafted table, and one of the Americans was staring at him in open horror as blood ran from the eyes and ears of his partner, the balding man frozen in place as Charles had thoughtlessly, carelessly, wrapped a hand around his mind and _squeezed_.

Slowly, Charles released his grip. Not entirely. He still kept the man frozen in place as he wiped his hands with a napkin and casually brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead, making a point of looking casual and important. Once he’d calmed down some, he leaned forward to speak, voice foreign and frightening even to himself. “Allow me to explain to you what’s going to happen now. You are going to return home, resign from your post immediately, and explain that you _grossly_ insulted the Imperial family and are in fact grateful that you weren’t arrested or thrown to the rocks of the Breakshore. When this is done and we have a new — hopefully, far more competent and far less _disgusting_ ambassador — you are never going to work for your government again or have any contact with Genosha. In exchange for this, I will generously _not_ inform my husband that you were idly thinking of your country kidnapping and experimenting on our unborn child. If at any point in the future, I feel that my children’s safety has been _at all_ compromised by you, you may be certain that Erik will know your name and where to find you. Is that understood?”

It was, fortunately. Good. Charles truly hated being the disciplinarian, he hoped the children wouldn’t require it too often.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Erik looked back over his shoulder, seeing Pietro edge into the nursery. He waved him forward, and the child ran over, causing a soft breeze when he did. Erik held up the chunk of metal he was molding. “I’m making a mobile for the babies.” There were only a couple of months left now before the new twins arrived. The nursery was finally ready, having quickly been filled with furniture and clothes and books and more toys than any child could possibly know what to do with. In the place of honor were the two red-and-white knit dragons that Phoebe had brought over after months of quiet work.

“What’s it gonna look like?” Pietro asked curiously.

“. . . I thought I could figure that out later.” Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he even _could_ make something so delicate. It was harder to make something than to tear it apart; he knew that better than most.

Around them sat small ingots of hand-selected copper, silver, and gold. Non-ferrous metals were more difficult for him to manipulate, but far from impossible. This would have seemed unthinkable to him ten, even five years ago.

But then, Charles had given him a lot.

Without asking, Pietro picked up one of the blocks, a gold one. It was barely smaller than his hand. “This should be a giraffe.”

Erik tilted his head. “I’m not sure I know giraffes well enough to make one.”

Pietro sighed in a put-upon way, rolling his eyes. “Hold on.” He ran to another room, quickly returning with a blue, stuffed giraffe roughly half his height. “Here’s what you do . . .”

They were halfway through a silver octopus when Phoebe appeared, lightly knocking on the open door. For once, her eyes were present, focused. To Erik, she said clearly, “No one is hurt. Charles and the babies are all safe and well.”

Erik felt his blood turn to ice as he stared at her. His eyes turned to chips of flint. “What happened?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy- the fuck. It's December. Shit.
> 
> Well, the next chapter is the LAST chapter!
> 
> ................
> 
> Of Part 1. 
> 
> Had you for a second there.
> 
> Along with Chapter 12, I will also post a 1000ish word interlude at the same time. Afterward, I am considering taking a week or two off of posting so I can focus on writing more chapters so I have them ready and spending holidays time with my family, and recuperate after finals (I only have one actual exam, but several papers/projects ...... happy thoughts, happy thoughts). I am looking forward to the next part, though (I've already written the first chapter, in fact!). But I'll talk more about that after the next chapter. Happy December and may 2020 not use its remaining time to blow us up before I can finish this fic.


	12. Secondary Reproductive System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new twins are born.

“For the last time Erik, I am _fine!_ ” Charles insisted for what was neither the first, nor in fact the _last_ time. He was lying in their bed at the new house, surrounded on each side by people, Erik by his head and Raven right beside him. The X-Men were scattered around the room, ending with Elixir on Charles’s other side as he took the Professor’s pulse and blood pressure.

“You fainted,” Erik said, carefully controlling the emotion in his voice, though it didn’t really do much to convince anyone. “ _Again._ ”

“I don’t like to think of it as fainting. More like . . . an unexpected nap.”

Erik’s eye twitched.

Elixir straightened his stance, removing the blood pressure cuff from Charles’s arm. “I hate to say it, Professor, but Erik is right.”

Erik did not attempt to hide his smugness.

The doctor gave Charles a serious look. “Were you ignoring your symptoms again?”

Charles shifted uncomfortably as everyone stared at him. “It wasn’t anything serious. I actually felt better than I had at the beginning.”

“But you _have_ been feeling poorly?”

Reluctantly, Charles nodded. “The past week has been . . . difficult.” Difficult was perhaps a _polite_ way of describing the way pain randomly racked his body at the worst of times, of how the dual-presence in his head threatened to overwhelm his own mind, or how he thought he might faint every time he went to stand up.

Granted, it all sounded much worse when he was forced to explain that out loud.

Elixir sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Professor, you know I have to be honest. This could be nothing, and normally I would just say get rest and fluids and try medication if it worsens.”

“There’s a but coming,” Raven stage-whispered to Angel. Sean and Alex chuckled to themselves.

Elixir glared at her. “Do all of you need to be here?”

“I would prefer to have them here,” Charles said pointedly. Raven equally-pointedly stuck her tongue out at Elixir.

Elixir sighed, but moved on. “We can’t be sure of anything. Twins are always difficult, and I don’t feel comfortable prescribing you anything unless it becomes absolutely necessary because I don’t know if you’ll react safely to it. For the time being, I’m going to put you on bed-rest. Don’t leave the house without talking to me, don’t get up if you can avoid it, and I’ll assign a nurse to you 24/7. I’m sure Erik will insist on having guards on the same schedule.”

Before Erik could even open his mouth, Charles rounded on him. “Don’t you start.”

* * *

“I wasn’t aware you were a nurse,” Charles said as Aquamarine took his pulse, blood pressure, and breath rate, sitting next to him on the bed that was to be his world for the rest of his pregnancy.

“Well, I wanted to be a heart surgeon,” she told him, scribbling notes down in a journal. “I’ve actually been shadowing Elixir; even get to learn from the doctors you guys brought over. But way back when, my dad said _real_ medical school wasn’t for women and he wouldn’t pay for it. So I went to nursing school instead. Of course, then Wyngarde happened, and Genosha . . .”

“Wyngarde?” Charles asked. He couldn’t tell if the name sounded familiar or if he was just imagining things.

“The guy who brought us to Genosha,” she explained. “He was creepy. Lurking around the school all the time, showing up where we showed up. I just ignored him at first, but then he started after Richter. He was living with me at school because it seemed safer than home. But Mastermind — that’s what he called himself, damn nutcase — got to him. I guess he knew that Richter used to be . . .” She frowned, struggling to find the right word. “I don’t really know how to put it.”

“You used to think he was your sister,” Charles offered, having looked into the minds of both siblings often enough to know that much.

Aquamarine nodded. “Exactly. And Rick was scared. Wyngarde blackmailed him or something. Got Rick to meet him alone. When my brother came home, he . . . he wasn’t himself. Let’s just say that was one San Francisco earthquake that was _not_ an act of God.” She chuckled, but it was strained and painful. “Then . . . I woke up here, and my mind wasn’t my own anymore.”

They sat in silence for a moment before she shook her head. “I’m just upsetting you. I shouldn’t . . . you know, Genosha has been good for a lot of people, in a lot of ways. My brother and I . . . we couldn’t be this free anywhere else, you know? This, what you’ve done, it’s good. And I want to help however I can. Even if it means fighting again, this is worth it.”

Charles smiled gently, patting her hand. “Well right now, this is the best way for you to help. Keep learning, keep going—”

“And keep taking care of the Voice of Genosha.”

Both of them turned around in the bed to see Erik, standing in the doorway with a smile.

Aquamarine quickly stood, her cheeks aflame. “Mr. Lehnsherr! Magneto— Imperator?”

“Magneto is fine.” He gestured to her notebook. “I hope everything is alright?”

She nodded, holding the notebook behind her back as though to hide it before remembering there was no need. Her face burned hotter. “The Professor seems to be stable at the moment. I’ll check in again in the morning.”

“Wonderful. In that case—” He held up the folded-chessboard he was carrying in one hand. “Charles?”

* * *

“Everything’s going to be alright, you know,” Erik said later, when Charles was going to checkmate him in three moves, but they kept playing anyway.

Charles chuckled roughly. “I don’t know how you can be so optimistic. Isn’t that my job?”

“I’m not optimistic. I simply refuse to allow anything else to happen.” His tone was joking. His eyes were not.

Charles moved his queen. “In that case, I shall simply have to be the pessimist.”

“Don’t you _dare_. The world will be a dark place the day Charles Xavier is no longer an idealist.”

Charles gazed across the chessboard fondly. “Well, now you’re just trying to get into my bed.”

“I have to _try_ now?” Erik asked, matching Charles’s playfulness with a suggestive eyebrow that made his husband laugh.

Charles’s laughter was quickly cut off when he winced, one hand going to cover his stomach. “Ow . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Erik demanded, quickly moving to his side. “What’s going on?”

Charles shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Nothing’s wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He took one of Erik’s hands — rough, callused, and slightly larger than his own — and placed it on his stomach. “Give them a moment.”

Erik waited, brows scrunched together. Then he felt it — a sharp _kick_ , right in his palm. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, they normally never do this for me.”

“I think they’re finally getting used to you,” Charles teased.

Erik laughed, sounding more awed than amused. “Oh, I hope so.” Erik pushed the chessboard to the end of the bed so he could lay down, pressing an ear to Charles’s belly. His face broke into a wide grin a moment later. “One of them just kicked me in the face.”

“Hm. Well, that does sound like your child.”

* * *

Phoebe woke an hour earlier than she normally did, unsure why until she checked the calendar. _Ah._ Yes, she remembered now. Knowledge of what would happen through the day came rushing back, though she kept her mind firmly tethered in one time for once. No running off to when she was a child eating chocolate-covered strawberries, or ten years in the future dancing at a festival to celebrate Genosha’s founding. No, today was one of her clearest memories of her life — a fact that was entirely intentional — and she knew without hesitation exactly what she would do.

Dressing quickly in a plain white linen shirt and matching pants, she made her way to the clinic, converted from the old base infirmary. Aquamarine was getting things set up around the building, and didn’t notice her. Phoebe knocked on Elixir’s office door. He opened it a moment later, frowning at her. “Phoebe, what a surprise. Can I—”

“You should prepare an operating room and tell the obstetrician to be ready,” Phoebe said calmly, cutting him off without a care. “The Professor will be here soon, and we shouldn’t waste time.”

“What— Professor Xavier’s surgery isn’t scheduled for another week!”

“I’m aware,” she informed him before walking back outside, pulled her hood up against the falling rain. It was a longer walk to the Imperial Residence, but she knew they had a bit of time, and Azazel would be able to teleport Charles safely to the clinic. She unlocked the door with a key that Charles had given her, following a chorus of pained groans to the bedroom. She opened the door.

Charles was lying in the center of his bed, blankets kicked to the floor as rivulets of sweat poured down his face. Erik was at his right side, Raven the left, both of them speaking to him in quiet, hushed tones. “Charles,” Erik began, sounding more tired than he’d ever been, “we have to go now.”

Charles shook his head. “It’s not time.” He grabbed Raven’s hand clumsily, squeezing until she winced. “We’re supposed to have another week. I don’t— I can’t risk it.”

“Charles,” Phoebe said quietly, alerting them to her presence. Normally, Erik would have noticed her immediately, and Charles would have felt her coming before she even reached the house. But then, she didn’t blame them for being otherwise occupied. “It’s time to go.”

He tossed his head back and forth, biting down on his lip. “ _No_. I can’t, I—” He sucked in a painful breath. “I have to get through this. My children are special, I can tell. But they’re small, vulnerable. They need all the time I can give them.” His eyes were far-away and impossibly blue as he rambled on. “I know, I can feel it. I need to hold on. For the world, Genosha, my children, for any _FUCKING reason I can think_ — ah!” His other hand reached out for Erik, trying to distract himself from the sharp pain wracking his body every few moments, or the heavy weight in his stomach bringing the rest of his body crashing down. He groaned in pain. “ _Erik._ ”

Erik stared at him, brushing dark locks of hair from Charles’s face before quickly coming to a decision. His eyes hardened. He looked to Raven. “Call Azazel. We’re leaving now.”

Phoebe nodded once to herself and removed her thin raincoat, stepping out of the room to hang it up. “I’ll watch Pietro and Wanda.”

* * *

Although Charles could not feel anything below his waist once the spinal anesthesia was applied, pain and fear wracked his body no matter how much anyone attempted to calm him. Erik was beside him, his mind the one soothing force in a sea of anxiety, his hand wrapped around Charles’s own. One of the doctors had protested his presence — it wasn’t yet common everywhere for fathers to be present during the birth, and apparently some people still cared even if it was a man bearing the children — but Erik had turned his shark-like grin on the man and made a row of scalpels shake before asking who planned to stop him. The doctors stepped aside quickly after that.

Charles squeezed Erik’s hand, drawing him closer. “I’m scared, Erik. Please, please help me not be. Lie to me, tell me everything’s okay, please.”

“Not a lie,” Erik said, trying to be as reassuring and gentle as Charles usually was. “You’re doing well. It will all be over soon. Our children are on their way.”

“Why would you lie about that?!”

Everything seemed to take so _long_. Surely it had already been an hour? Something was wrong, it had to be, this was taking too long. Elixir was right, he had done something wrong, something that hurt his children, oh no, _oh God—_

A cry sounded through the room. Charles thought it was himself for a moment before realizing his mouth was closed.

“There we go,” Elixir said slowly, raising a small, screaming white-and-red bundle in his arms. Another was held by a nurse as she cut the cords, and Charles caught a glimpse of a tiny fist clutched around the heel of the first newborn.

 _Newborn_ , Charles thought in hushed awe. _Babies._

“Here we are,” Elixir said in genuine relief as the aura of Charles’s anxiety collapsed, leaving his mind unclouded. “Beautiful baby girl and boy.”

“Oh,” Charles whispered, trying to think of something profound to say. “Oh.”

The operating room was a flurry of fast-paced activity as the infants were checked, measured, weighed, and bathed. A nurse quickly cleaned the gaping hole in Charles’s stomach, removing the blood and amniotic fluid so that Elixir could put his hands on Charles’s abdomen, allowing them to glow a dull gold as the flesh and skin knit itself back together. When the doctor stepped back, his eyes were tired, but he smiled. He held each of the newborns in his hands for a minute, sensing their lungs and veins and firing nerves before nodding. “Congratulations,” he said, handing the first bundle to Charles. “They’re healthy.”

Charles almost didn’t hear him, eyes focused on the baby in his arms. “She’s so _small_.” He held her as though she were the single most precious thing in the world because she _was_. She was wrapped in one of the hand-knit blankets Phoebe had given them. Her hair was a shock of bright orange-red, reminding him of Erik when the golden light of a sunset glinted off of his auburn locks. Though she’d stopped crying, her mouth was open as she looked up at him with what he felt was pure curiosity. Her eyes were a bright, beautiful blue.

Erik stood beside him, holding a similarly small, perfect blanket-wrapped baby in his arms. Charles looked over, trying to see his new son properly. “How is he?”

Erik didn’t lift his eyes from the baby, somehow holding him even more gently than Charles did their daughter. Voice thick with emotion, he said in his native German, “ _Wunderschönen_.” The boy’s hair, once cleaned of the blood and fluid, was pure white, paler than his face. His eyes, tiredly slit, were grey like Erik’s in bright light. He yawned, more exhausted than curious. Stunned, Erik laughed. “ _Hallo. Ich bin dein Papa._ ”

The boy seemed mildly interested in this information for a moment before closing his eyes in preparation for a nap. Erik, moving slowly as though the infant would break if he was too fast, leaned down to press the softest of kisses to his downy hair.

Erik looked up suddenly, facing Charles. “I love you,” he said in a tired, exhilarated rush. “I love all of you so much.” He shifted so that he was supporting the baby with one arm, then curled his other hand around Charles’s face, pulling him in for a kiss. “You have no idea.” Tears of joy prickled his eyes. “ _No idea._ ”

“I know, Erik,” Charles said because it was true, and kissed him back. “I know.”

It was later, while Charles was lying in his bed in exhaustion with both babies on his chest, when Raven asked, “Did you guys pick out names?”

Erik nodded, his son’s fist wrapped around one of his fingers as the baby snoozed. “This is Jakob.” One hand brushing over his daughter’s soft red hair, he said, “And this is Jean.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wunderschönen = Beautiful (German)  
> Hallo. Ich bin dein Papa. = Hello. I’m your Papa. 
> 
> I wanted to briefly talk about why I chose the names I did (and sorry Ethan for not naming a baby after you, but they were already chosen). Jakob is a German variation of the name Jacob (you could also say that Jacob is an English variation of Jakob, but I’m an ignorant American), meaning “seizing by the heel”; it has Abrahaimic origins, but the reason I liked it (in addition to its meaning) is because in some sources it’s the name of Erik’s father, and it’s a custom of Ashkenazi Jews to name children after deceased loved ones (further information in [this](https://www.shiva.com/learning-center/commemorate/naming-a-child/) and [this link](https://gods-leastfavorite-parent.tumblr.com/post/635236747266179072/lildevyl-sage-wilde-va-roach-works)). I especially thought Jakob was a good choice because I felt that Erik’s father receives less focus in both XMFC and the fandom, so this seemed like a nice gesture. Although Jakob is an OC, his middle name, David, is a reference to Professor X’s son in the comics, David Haller. 
> 
> Jean is a somewhat-modernized form of the name Joan, referencing Joan of Arc aka Jeanne d'Arc, widely considered to be a French heroine, which is the sort of thing I think Charles would like. Similar to her twin, her middle name, Edie, is a reference to Erik’s mother. And that's about it for Jean :)))))  
> …  
> Oh, also, she's THAT Jean.


	13. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the birth of their twins, Erik can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of odd because it didn’t feel like it really fit in Part 1 or Part 2, but I loved this scene and didn’t want to cut it, so I’m posting it between the two parts as an Interlude. Enjoy!

Erik was out of bed.

Again.

Charles sighed as the information dawned on him. He’d really hoped tonight would be a good night.

Charles rolled over, seeing his husband’s silhouette bent over a cradle. He drew a tired hand down his face. The boundaries of his telepathy stretched until he was reassured that both Erik and the twins were alive and sound. “Erik?”

The other mutant was still as a statue, staring down. When Charles looked closer, he noticed that one of his hands was lowered into Jakob’s cradle. It rocked softly, not making a noise.

It was another minute before Erik spoke. “He wasn’t breathing.”

Charles sat up in bed, voice gentle. “He’s fine, Erik. I would have felt it immediately if something were wrong with either of them.”

Erik tilted his head as though considering the idea. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? That should comfort me.”

Both of them knew it didn’t.

Charles stood, walking over to his husband and brushing a hand over his temple. “They’re okay. Feel.” He allowed the feelings of warmth and safety to seep into Erik’s head, sharing the steady heartbeats and deep breaths of their children with him. “See? Nothing can hurt them while we’re here.”

Slowly, Erik nodded, still not looking at him. Charles sighed. “Do you want to sleep?”

His husband nodded again.

“Alright.”

Erik did not make a move to the bed. Charles had to urge him back, pushing him down into the blankets and pillows before raising a finger to his temple. Erik’s grey eyes slowly slid shut as Charles gently lead him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Erik woke slowly, his vision blurred as he dragged his eyes open. The curtains were drawn back from a window, allowing sunlight to brighten the room, its white walls and dark wooden floors, the flower-filled vases and books and metal paperweights lining the shelves. A few feet away, the cradles that he’d carved and built himself stood still.

They were empty.

Erik leapt up from the bed, running over to the cradles in three swift strides. He stared down into them for too long, his brain working too slow, before leaving the room. Not even thinking to put on shoes, he stormed down the stairs and outside, running despite not knowing where he was going. How long had he been out? Had someone knocked him unconscious, or simply taken advantage of his exhaustion? Where were Pietro and Wanda, where was—

He skidded to a stop in the grass. Then, loud as he could, he thought, _CHARLES!_

His shoulders slumped in relief when he felt the sharp shock and surprise of Charles’s mind in his own. _Yes, darling?_

 _Where are you?_ Erik demanded, fearful. _The children, they’re—_

A clear image appeared in his mind, of twin one-month-olds happily resting in a nearby house. Jean was snuggled in Charles’s arms, one tiny hand on the side of her bottle as she suckled. Jakob rested in a baby carrier, staring intently at a rattle hanging above him and occasionally reaching out a hand for it. Both seemed fine.

Erik felt tears of relief fall from his eyes. _Where are all of you?_

He did not breathe easy until Charles was sitting in front of him, carefully balancing both twins in his arms as he regaled them with tales of their “silly Papa” who had missed them so much. Erik walked over to them, going to his knees in front of the couch, just high enough to be able to look down on them. Both were fine, babbling and giggling when they saw him. Jean lifted her little hands, reaching for his face. Charles carefully handed her over, and Erik held her close to his chest, slowly allowing the tension to drain from his body. “Hallo, Schatz. Hast du mich vermisst?” He smiled when she accidentally scratched his chin, closing his eyes in peace.

Later, when the newborns were down for their nap, Erik and Charles returned home, neither entirely looking at the other. Finally, Erik asked, “Where’s Wanda and Pietro?”

“School.”

He nodded. He should have thought of that, should have asked sooner . . . but he’d been so panicked. Rational thought had abandoned him entirely, leaving only panic and fear and love.

Erik flinched when Charles rested a hand over his own, then shook his head at himself. He really was a mess. “Why was I asleep?” In the moment, he’d assumed that their attacker had knocked him out, but now he wondered what the hell Charles had been thinking.

Charles sighed. “I let you sleep in. You’ve been exhausted since the twins were born. I don’t think you’ve gotten a full night of sleep in a month.”

Erik nodded. That made sense, in the caring, occasionally thoughtless way that Charles was.

Charles’s hand moved again, burying itself into the back of Erik’s hair and playing with the soft strands. “Why can’t you sleep, darling?”

Erik shut his eyes in an attempt to hold back tears born of exhaustion and fear and helplessness. It didn’t work. “I can’t protect them,” he admitted in a whisper. “When I try to sleep, I just lie awake thinking of all the things that could hurt them.” He paused before adding, “I’m having nightmares about the camps again.” Without looking at Charles, he heard him suck in a breath. Erik hadn’t dreamed of the camps since killing Shaw. “Only now instead of my parents, they’re taking the children away — sometimes just Jean and Jakob, but sometimes Wanda and Pietro too. I try to run to them, but there are too many soldiers, and the metal won’t respond to me. I lose sight of them, and that’s when I wake up. But I know how it really ends.” His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. Every night, he woke with the taste of smoke and ash in his mouth. “It always ends the same way.”

For a moment, Charles was still, neither speaking nor moving. Then he grabbed Erik by the shoulder, pulling him down and back so Erik’s head was resting against his chest. Erik let him, curling up on the bed, looking more vulnerable than he would ever allow himself to in front of anyone else. Charles drew a hand through his copper-tinted hair.

“Erik,” Charles soothed. “You _can_ protect them. I know you can. No one is more devoted than you. And you’re not alone. I wouldn’t let anyone close to our children. Never, alright? There is not a single mutant on Genosha who wouldn’t tear apart anyone who tried to take them from us.” He pressed a soft kiss to Erik’s hair. “Do you want me to stop the nightmares?” He’d done that a few times when they were at the mansion when Erik allowed him, but he hadn’t needed it as much after they started sleeping in the same bed.

Erik considered the idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Charles with his mind — quite the opposite — but he hated needing help. Even with Charles, he couldn’t help the feeling that he should be able to handle it on his own.

 _But_ , a treacherous thought asked, _what if his exhaustion prevented him from protecting his family?_ He shuddered at the idea. That couldn’t happen. He would never forgive himself if it did.

“Alright,” he said finally, giving in to both his and Charles’s concern. “Alright, if it will help.”

“It will,” Charles promised.

They rested on the couch in silence before Jakob suddenly started crying. Charles winced before sighing. “He’s hungry.”

He started to stand up, but Erik stopped him. “I’ve got it, Liebling.” It took a couple of minutes for him to prepare a bottle, and he held Jakob in his arms as his son fed, staring up at Erik with the same pale eyes as his Papa while he did. Erik smiled down at him before looking at Charles. “Why don’t you go? I’m sure you have things to do. I’ll take care of them today.”

Charles chuckled. “Because you’re not busy?”

Erik shrugged. “I can have a day. Call for me if you need anything.”

When Jakob was done with his bottle, Erik carried him around the house, gently rocking. Once when the baby gurgled in happiness, Erik smiled protectively down on him. _I will never let anything hurt you_ , he silently swore, the gold light of day glinting off of Jakob’s platinum hair. _I will tear apart anyone and anything that ever attempts to come between us. Whatever it takes to spare you pain, I’ll do it. I promise._

* * *

Later that night, the rain beat against the windows and Pietro and Wanda crawled into their bed, still young enough to be scared of storms. Now they were asleep, Charles’s telepathy hovering over and around their minds, like a warm blanket keeping them safe from the outside world. Erik was asleep too, lulled into dreams of even breaths and small hands and laughter. Jean and Jakob were asleep in one cradle, Charles’s telepathy preventing Jean from noticing the cracks of lightning. Jakob didn’t seem to mind.

Charles kept one hand on the cradle, gently rocking it while running his other hand through Erik’s hair. To his husband, he whispered, “You’re not alone anymore, Erik. We’re not alone. You’re not the only one whose job it is to protect them.” The next words were more telepathy than speech, more a feeling than anything light enough to be constrained by his voice. “We’re going to make it, Erik. One day we’ll be sitting around a beach with our children and our children’s children and we’ll laugh about how scared we were.” Erik’s face was lined from hunger and fear and grief and pain. Charles drew a finger across his forehead. “I’ll see you with laughter lines, my love.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hallo, Schatz. Hast du mich vermisst?” = Hello, sweetheart. Did you miss me? (German) (also, thank you to the five-ish people on tumblr who responded when I asked for a translation of the latter sentence)
> 
> So, like I talked about earlier, I will be taking about 2-3 weeks off of posting to focus on finals and write some more chapters. Happy holidays!


	14. Telekinesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Part Two: The Onslaught_**
> 
> In the mutant nation of Genosha, Charles and Erik's children grow into their own. 
> 
> Pietro and Wanda start to build a place for themselves in a divided world. 
> 
> And the entire family is put to the challenge as it becomes clear that something is wrong with Jakob . . .

**Part Two: The Onslaught**

_— 1978-1982 —_

“It's been said that when a parent has a child, they never get a good night's rest again. Well, I have millions of children, and I haven't slept in decades . . . I may never sleep again . . . Now the same may be true of you . . . But they will."

— Professor X to Magneto; House of X (2019) #6

Jakob was not there when his sister’s powers manifested.

This was something that would always strike him as wrong in the years to come. He had not even been doing anything important that might have justified his indiscretion. He was just working on a school project that he’d procrastinated on and had stayed at home to finish it. Jean left with Charles, sitting in the front seat like a grown-up. They took one of the only cars on the island to greet the human ambassadors (apparently they considered it unbecoming to walk around the island on foot; Charles tried to explain it, but Jakob was pretty sure they were just lazy). They drove on a road that could only generously be called paved. Jean waved to the mutants that saw them as they passed, smiling when they waved back to her. Dad grinned, softly affectionate.

Neither of them could have seen what was coming. Not their fault. Jean was looking the wrong way, and Charles couldn’t sense negative intent where there was none. It wasn’t a bomb or assassination attempt that nearly flipped the car over, but simply the poor control of a young mutant who didn’t have the sense to face away from the road.

The car slammed forward, tilting _up up up_ , trunk in the air. They should have fallen.

Instead, they stopped.

Jean screamed, reaching her hands out in front of herself in defense or fear. She didn’t even notice the way her eyes glowed.

The car stilled, held mid-fall in the air. She sucked in a painful breath, looking around for their savior. It was only when she felt the painful strain on her muscles that she realized _she_ was the one holding it.

As soon as she noticed, the car came back down to earth. It had lost its momentum while she held it in place, and instead of throwing the trunk forward, it fell back on its wheels, shaking harmlessly for a moment before stopping once more, seeming uninterested in going any further.

Charles breathed hard for a long time, fingers tight around the wheel. Then he looked at his daughter and tried very hard to smile.

* * *

Erik, of course, did not have to try. As soon as they came home and told him what happened, he picked Jean up and whirled her around in sheer joy, the way he hadn’t in nearly three years as Jean became determined to be more grown-up, whatever that meant. He was grinning his shark-grin when he put her back down, mouth wide and showing off his teeth. Pale eyes practically glowed in triumph.

“You did so well, Schatz,” he tells her. Jean smiled shyly, caught between pride and being awkward at the attention. “I was starting to worry— you seemed to be taking so long . . .”

Jean frowned to herself. Thirteen was average, a normal age to manifest. In fact, she was certain that Papa had been around her age when his powers made themselves known. Surely he knew that?

But then Charles shot his husband a disapproving look, and Erik added, “But that’s just a father’s impatience.” His smile softened, and he leaned down to scatter kisses over her red hair and lightly freckled forehead. “And you saved yourself and your father. You should be so, _so_ proud of yourself.”

Dad and Papa were still talking, both amongst themselves and to the children, but from the corner of her eye, Jean saw her twin. She stopped, unsure of how he would react.

Jakob was not quite pouting, but his arms were crossed, and she could sense his frustration before he spoke. “Congratulations,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. Jealousy, that’s what it was. The greater part of him was happy for her, but it was clouded by that side that was bitter his own abilities hadn’t appeared yet.

Jean half-shrugged, aware of their fathers in the background, filling in Wanda and Pietro on what happened as they arrived from school. “Guess I was just lucky to be in a car crash.”

Jakob laughed, a sharp, surprised sound. Jean laughed with him.

And just like that, all was forgiven.

Later, when they were supposed to be in bed while downstairs Charles and Erik and aunt Raven began planning a party to celebrate, Jean snuck into her brother’s bedroom. Only a year ago they’d shared a room, but then Jakob’s voice began to change and Jean hit a growth spurt and their fathers decided that they needed their own space.

Jakob seemed to be waiting for her even though he couldn’t have known she was coming. They sat on the bed, Jakob leaning against the headboard and Jean staring up at the ceiling. It was painted black-blue with silver pinpricks for stars. The walls had grey-and-white clouds at the top, pouring rain and lightning onto the floor. She liked to try to count the stars, even though she always lost count and always knew she _would_ lose count no matter how much she tried.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The lamp on Jakob’s nightstand was on, allowing him to read from a math textbook. If someone looked on his shelves, they would see books of biology and astronomy and physics in addition to the classics that Dad insisted on. In the place of honor stood his two copies of Charles’s thesis on mutation. Most of the children on the island kept multiple, one to make notes and annotations for biology and genetic classes, and another to keep pristine and read from when you needed to feel connected to the genes inside of you and the history of the island. Jakob was still young, but he’d already read and re-read it more than five times.

Jean was still staring at her father’s name on the leather-bound paper when she spoke. “I’m a telepath.”

Jakob paused in his reading, lowering the book to look at her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

She nodded.

“When did you find out?”

Jean shifted, shrugging for lack of anything else to do. “When we started to walk home. After the accident, I thought my head was just a mess because of what happened. But then I calmed down, and I realized I was hearing dad.” She frowned. “He was _really_ upset.”

Despite himself, Jakob huffed in amusement. “Well, _yeah_. You could’ve been hurt.” He didn’t say that Charles could have been hurt too. They both knew that their dad would have been far more concerned with his little girl than himself.

Jean nodded. “I guess.” Still, it didn’t feel right. Dad’s thoughts had been scattered, but from what she caught, he’d seemed more concerned about her powers manifesting than any physical harm she might have suffered.

But then again, she hadn’t been thinking right herself. And of _course_ Dad would be curious about her powers. It was shocking and new. Not to mention he might have been worried she’d lose control and end up hurting herself worse. New, unpredictable powers and teenage hormones were a dangerous combination.

Jack sat up straight before leaning towards her, resting his chin in his palm. "You haven't told them?"

She shook her head.

"Why not?"

She started to shrug again, but that was a lie, if a wordless one. “I wanted to tell you first. Just us.”

Jakob tried not to smile, but he wasn't very good at controlling his face. She could feel how pleased he was that she wanted to share this with him, placing him above the rest of their family, if only for the night. Oh, they loved their family, but they were _twins_. They came into the world together, had never known a day apart. Everything they could share together, they did.

“What am I thinking about right now?” he asked eagerly.

Jean tilted her head back, trying to concentrate. It would be a while before she had complete control of her powers, she knew, but it was definitely annoying how hard it was to wade through the sea of information from everyone in the house before she could land on even a single coherent thought from her twin. “Math homework,” she said confidently. Then, “And you’re wondering what powers you’ll have.”

It would have been an easy guess, but he could tell that she was being honest. He nodded. “Yeah. I think I want to be telekinetic too. Like Papa.” He thoughtlessly slipped into speaking German. “I don’t know if I want to hear people’s thoughts, though. You’d see all the bad stuff.”

Jean sighed pretentiously, turning her nose up. She had their Papa’s nose, straight and strong and aristocratic. “Well, obviously _I_ can handle it. Don’t you know who I am?”

Jakob laughed at her. “Excuse me? Don’t _you_ know who my fathers are?”

“I should hope so — they’re mine too!”

They must have laughed a little too hard at their own stupid joke, because a moment later, both of them heard Charles’s voice in their heads. _I understand you’re excited, but both of you have school tomorrow and you need to be getting to bed. Good night._

Jean sighed at her own thoughtlessness before sliding down from the bed. “I’m sure you’ll manifest soon, Jakob.” She perked up. “Then we can train together!”

Jakob, normally so sour-faced, eagerly smiled back. “Go on _missions_.”

“Join the X-Men!”

“Fight aliens and robots and—”

Both of them paused, staring at each other’s blue eyes. At the same time, they added Papa’s favorite monster: “ _Humans!_ ”

They were still grinning when Erik shouted up from the bottom of the stairs, “When your father tells you to go to bed, I _expect you_ to listen!”

Rolling her eyes — Papa was never half so angry as he acted, not with them — Jean finally slinked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She had just a couple of seconds to catch Jakob’s ink-black hair blend into darkness as he shut off the light.

* * *

Two years passed. Jakob didn’t manifest.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back
> 
> *Quick note/disclaimer on the name of part 2. Now, this is a weird one because I was still brainstorming ideas for a "mutant name" for Jakob. I don't remember why or how, but I thought "Oh, onslaught sounds cool" because it means like "a fierce or destructive attack" (thanks google) and I thought that was the kind of thing he would pick. So I go to look up if there are any actual X-Men called Onslaught, and I see the Wikipedia article: 
> 
> "Onslaught is a fictional supervillain appearing in American comic books published by Marvel Comics. Onslaught was written as a sentient psionic entity created from the consciousness of two mutants: Professor Charles Xavier and Magneto."
> 
> And I thought: that's pretty cool and oddly fitting. So while part 2 is not directly inspired by that storyline or character, I just liked it and thought it was a neat sort-of reference.
> 
> Also! Different note - I'm changing the update schedule to Sunday/Wednesday instead of Saturday/Wednesday.


	15. Technology, Experimentation, Alien Biology, and Martial Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Wanda are given a unique opportunity.

Wanda and Pietro sat on a bench outside of Erik’s office, looking for all the world like two teenagers waiting to be called into the principal’s office, despite the fact that at nearly twenty-four, both of them had long completed their schooling. Wanda held a steaming cup of coffee in her hands despite the heat, not drinking it, but just wanting to give her hands something to do. Beside her, Pietro was bounding his legs so fast they were a black-and-silver blur.

After several minutes of this, Wanda snapped at him. “Would you stop that? I’m already nervous enough.”

To his credit, Pietro managed to make it a whole two minutes before he started up again. Wanda sighed and closed her eyes.

“Do you know what we did?” Pietro asked, thinking of and shooting down possibilities. “I _can’t_ have done anything that bad since the last time he was mad at me.”

“Well you must’ve, because _I_ haven’t done anything!”

“Why does everyone always expect me to get into trouble?”

“We’ve _met_ you.”

“Pietro, Wanda.”

Both of them snapped their heads towards the door, their nerves palpable. _Well,_ Wanda thought, _here goes nothing._ The twins shared one last fleeting look before standing up and walking into the office.

Technically, each of their fathers had four offices. Both had one in the Institute where government business was conducted, then another at the Academy, and finally a shared one at home. Besides that, Charles was the only official member of the X-Men to have his own private office at their HQ, whereas Erik had a matching one at the army base. All five had roughly the same design: dark floors, clean wooden walls, and metal furniture that Erik himself had made. _Vater_ was sitting at his desk right now, not yet looking up at them as he finished writing something. He gestured towards a heavily cushioned couch. “Just a moment, children.”

Wand and Pietro glanced at each other. Erik was definitely still in Imperator mode rather than dad mode. Usually that meant nothing good. If it was normal family business, why not do it at home rather than make them squirm and wait like this? The fact that neither of them could think of a reason they might be in trouble just made it worse; they didn’t even have any good excuses prepared.

The thing that kept them from immediately begging forgiveness was that Charles was there too, leaning against the desk and speaking to his husband in a hushed tone. He even smiled at them when they came in. Surely it couldn’t be _that_ bad if he wasn’t upset?

Right? 

A single awkward minute passed before Erik finally pushed back his chair, looking up at them. His stern face softened. “Both of you can relax. You’re not in trouble.”

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Charles said, walking around the room to sit down at a small coffee table, a tea set already out with four cups. “Come now, dears, we have something we want to ask you about.”

They did so, relaxing slightly as they settled on the couch across from their fathers. Charles began pouring tea out for everyone, adding milk and honey to Wanda’s and several scoops of sugar to Pietro’s. Her brother was practically vibrating with nervous energy, bouncing his feet and running his hands over his thighs. He managed to get down a sip of tea before blurting out, “What’s going on? Because if this is about the other day, I _swear_ , I did not see that beehive there—”

Erik raised a finger for silence. Pietro wisely shut his mouth. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Just this once.”

“You _really_ aren’t in trouble this time,” Charles reassured them. “We actually have . . . well, an opportunity for both of you, I suppose you’d say. A new position.”

“Oh.” Wanda visibly relaxed. That wasn’t unusual. Now that they were adults —if rather bad at it — Charles liked to get them involved with running the island, usually by enlisting them to help with classes or training with the X-Men. They’d even gone on a mission when a dangerous prisoner got loose on the island, and Erik enlisted them in evacuating children when they aided New York in the Chitauri attack. But that didn’t warrant cryptic orders or serious conversations in The Office, right?

Charles quietly drank his tea before setting the cup down and looking at them. “You both know that we’ve been working with the Avengers more recently.”

They did know. Erik complained about it often. The Avengers were a human made and lead team (though they apparently had no problem accepting aliens or androids, Erik griped) created shortly after Genosha was founded. Though they’d always been wary of each other, they’d never _actually_ come to blows before, and relations had improved after Erik and Charles lead a team to help fight back when an alien army attempted to invade New York. Erik never forwent an opportunity to point out that this was only because aliens would be even worse for them than the humans. Charles was just happy to help.

“We’ve been in talks with them,” Erik said, clearly biting back an “unfortunately”, “and they have _graciously_ agreed to accept two mutant representatives to the team as a gesture of good will.” Erik’s tone was not very gracious.

Charles set a hand on Erik’s shoulder, gently kneading. “Be polite.”

“I’ll be polite when they’re in front of me. I don’t have to when we’re alone.” This seemed as unlikely as Erik being polite when they _weren’t_ around, but no one said as much.

Charles shook his head affectionately, as though Erik’s persistent anti-human stance was an amusing quirk. “The _point_ is,” Charles said, drawing them back to the matter at hand, “that we want to recommend the two of you.”

Wanda stared at him, shocked. She hadn’t guessed. How had she not even thought he might say that? It seemed obvious now — why else bother to talk to them about this — but she hadn’t considered it at all. It was so far off her radar that it seemed silly to consider. Papa, trusting them enough to offer them such an important position, not to mention entrusting them to a group of humans who probably wouldn’t lift a finger to help their kind so long as it didn’t affect them? Laughable. Charles, willingly sending two of his children to live on the other side of the planet without him? Insane.

And yet it was happening. Charles and Erik were watching them expectantly, waiting to see how they would react. There was a strange light in Erik’s eyes. Charles’s smile was tight.

Was she supposed to react? What did they even want her to say?

“You guys are serious?” Pietro said suddenly, as shocked as his sister, but far less quiet. “We can’t be Avengers.”

“Why not?” Charles asked genuinely at the same time as Erik said, “Don’t call me guy.”

“We’re mutants,” Wanda pointed out. “They’re all so . . . _human_.”

“Thor’s an alien,” Pietro pointed out. “And isn’t their new guy a robot? I know he’s red, the rest I’m not so sure about.”

“But Wanda has a point,” Charles conceded. “They’re mostly human. But then, that _is_ the idea.” He sipped his tea. “Think of yourself as an ambassador.”

“Ambassadors who get to fight bad guys, right?” Pietro asked, suddenly worried that it was in question.

Erik nodded, indulgent. “Plenty. They never seem to leave New York alone. It’s a wonder anyone still lives there.”

“You say that about all human cities,” Charles pointed out.

“And I’m right. They’re all terrible.” He tilted his head, smiling. “Although Paris was fun.”

Turning away from him, Charles blushed, muttering, “Not in front of the children.” The twins made matching faces of disgust.

Recovering quickly, Charles continued, “It’s entirely your choice, obviously. But you’re adults now. You don’t need to spend the rest of your lives at home, doing what we tell you. There’s always a place for you in Genosha, but you’re capable of doing so much more than you have.”

From anyone else, it would have seemed like a backhanded, passive-aggressive insult. From Charles, it was a gentle push forward, reminding them of their unending potential, which he honestly believed in, even if they didn’t. Wanda, always eager to please, nodded before she’d even thought it through. “When would we leave?”

* * *

Jean sat on her older sister’s bed, arms wrapped around her knees as Wanda packed. “Are you going to be gone forever?”

Wanda paused, holding a folded dress above her suitcase. Part of her head was busy wondering if she should really take all these clothes since the climate was so different in New York, even as she pulled her attention back. “I don’t think so. But it will probably be a while before we visit.” In actuality, no one was entirely sure what would happen from here. This was so new and experimental. Maybe if it were someone else joining the Avengers, an X-Men member or one of Erik’s soldiers, things would be different. But being Charles’s and Erik’s children brought its own expectations. She was a daughter of Genosha, first and foremost. She’d come home eventually.

She told Jean as much, but the redhead just nodded, trying to look bored while never quite managing to banish the betrayal from her eyes. Jean was a teenager now, but her pout resembled that of a wounded animal more than anything else. Wanda sighed, letting her suitcase fall closed so she could sit down on the bed. Jean didn’t look at her, but allowed Wanda to pull her into a hug, resting her head on the older girl’s shoulder. “You know we’re gonna miss you. This is important, but it’s not you.”

Reluctantly, Jean nodded. “You’ll be good at it. Show up all the humans, save everyone’s lives. You’ll show ‘em what mutants are made of.”

“Planning to.” She squeezed Jean’s shoulder. “But we’ll call, and write, and come back for your birthday and the holidays.” Wanda cracked a smile. “What would Chanukka be without Dad’s burnt attempts at latkes?”

Jean snorted. “Yeah, they’re pretty bad when he does them.” Which was every year.

“Maybe one day they’ll be good.”

“Yeah. Maybe he’ll practice tons this year and impress you when you come back.”

“Or maybe he’ll finally let someone else try.”

“We can dream.”

They chuckled to themselves as much as each other, sitting in silence for a moment before Jean said, “Don’t let your German get rusty.”

“Don’t torture Jakob _too much_ with your powers.”

“I’ll try to restrain it to a reasonable amount, but I make no promises.”

Wanda nodded gratefully, one hand fiddling with the end of Jean’s long plait. She’d started braiding Jean’s hair when the latter was only seven, at first as a way to keep her still and quiet while she babysat, and then just because they both enjoyed it. Now Jean spent time each morning and evening playing around with new styles. The fact her copper-red hair was only done in a simple triple-stranded braid showed how upset she really was.

Sighing internally, Wanda pulled back, releasing Jean from her embrace. Jean tried to smile, but her pale-blue eyes were sad and shimmery.

Unable to allow her sister to go uncomforted, Wanda decided to go ahead and give her the gift she’d been meaning to leave behind. Holding her hand up, she twisted her bracelet down her wrist, pulling it off. Jean glanced at it curiously, eyes widening when Wanda handed it to her. The bracelet was something Wanda had worn since a few months before Jean was worn. She honestly wasn’t sure if her sister had ever seen her without it. The copper and steel shone as brightly as they had when she was seven. The metal threads were intricately braided together, a sign of the deft power and control of their shared father. Jean had her own share of jewelry and trinkets, including a set of matching copper cuffs and a torque necklace that Erik had given her when her powers manifested and which she wore almost every day now. But she’d always admired Wanda’s two-toned bracelet, wanting something like it for herself, but too awkward or quiet to ask.

Now, Wanda pressed it into her hand. “This is too precious to take with me. I don’t want it to get banged up or lost on a mission. Keep it safe while I’m gone, okay?”

Before Jean could ask whether she was allowed to wear it or not, Wanda took the bracelet and bracelet and fit it around her sister’s wrist for her. A small smile overtook Jean’s mouth, and she raised her wrist so the light was glinting off of it. “It feels nice.”

Wanda knew what she meant. Not just that it felt nice on her wrist, but that the material, the way the elements bound and wrapped around each other, the very _structure_ of the metal itself was good. She was doing that more often as her telekinesis progressed. Sensing the materiality of things, feeling and knowing them in the same way most people did the beating of their hearts or the strain of their muscles. She wasn’t anywhere near Erik’s level, of course — in fact, Dr. McCoy predicted that since her telekinesis was so generalized, she’d probably never manage anything particularly delicate or complex, nor the impressive feats of power that Erik was known for — but her powers were steadily growing in scale and control.

Jean cradled her arm to her chest. “I’ll take good care of it. Promise.”

Wanda smiled. “I know. I trust you.”

* * *

The day they were set to leave, Charles spent a good ten minutes fussing over each of the twins in turn, checking to make sure they had everything (Pietro didn’t), that they’d brushed their hair and put on shoes (Wanda hadn’t), and that they were ready to go (both pretended to be). “Both of you feel free to come home at any time,” he said while Charles and Erik inspected them for the the last time, his voice deadly serious. “I don’t care about the consequences or the politics, alright? If you ever need to be home, just call and I’ll send Azazel to come and get you, and leave the rest to us.”

“But also try not to embarrass you guys and ruin Genosha’s reputation and that of mutants across the planet, right?” Pietro asked humorously.

“Exactly,” Erik snarked, though his eyes were soft. He stepped forward, fixing the lapels of the silver leather jacket Pietro had insisted on wearing, surprising him. He checked that Pietro’s goggles were snug and positioned so they wouldn’t slide into his face at an inopportune time. Wanda was dressed more respectably than Pietro in a long red Genoshan dress with flowing sleeves and light fabric, but Erik seem to care more about their comfort than their appearance. “All eyes will be on you. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Throat tight, Pietro nodded. “We’ll give ‘em something worth looking at.”

Erik cracked a smile. “Both of you are going to make us proud. I know that.” He pulled Pietro into one of his rare hugs. He’d never been as physical as Charles, but he wasn’t cold either. Still, Pietro was stunned when Erik kissed his temple, something he hadn’t done since the Maximoff twins were young teens who still allowed themselves to be affectionate with their parents.

Wanda squeaked slightly when Erik hugged her in turn, pressing a kiss into her mousy brown hair, arms wrapped around her back. When he backed up, he kept his hands on her shoulders, looking into her dark eyes. “Remember, Schatz, you are _mutants_. Children of Genosha, Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver. You have nothing to fear that should not fear you a thousand times more.”

Wanda smiled despite herself, heart soaring. Papa was good at that. Of reminding them what they were, making them feel powerful. She didn’t think it would last, but it would get her out of the room at least.

Jean and Jakob were the last to wish them goodbye. Jean seemed to have already gotten it out over the past few weeks, and she just hugged them and wished them well before leaving, but Jakob had been studiously avoiding the subject whenever possible. No, he stood with his arms crossed, shooting them looks that were part grieving, part worshipful, part jealous. Jakob always felt so _much_.

“So I guess you’re leaving,” he said reluctantly. “I didn’t think they’d actually take you.”

 _Very_ Jakob. Part insult, part not wanting them to leave, not really saying either lest he be accused of having feelings.

Pietro shrugged. “Guess they really lowered their standards. You know they have someone whose power is just being good at archery? Jean is good at archery. _I’m_ good at archery.”

“Running up to the target and stabbing it with the arrow before anyone can see you is not the same thing as archery.”

“Same result.”

Jakob allowed him a small half-smile. “Don’t die. You’ll make Dad upset.”

Code for _I’ll be sad if you’re hurt._ When had Jakob started hiding what he meant? They couldn’t remember.

He feigned reluctance when Pietro wrapped him up in a hug, unable to keep himself from laughing when Pietro lifted him off the ground. “Fine, fine, I’ll miss you! Just put me down!”

Wanda smiled at her younger brother when Pietro finally released him. She looked him up and down as though to memorize his appearance, as though they would never see each other again. Deep-blue eyes like Dad, sharp jaw and cheeks like Papa. His black shirt, formless and long-sleeved, wasn’t particularly Genoshan, but it was _very_ Jakob. She was still unused to seeing his neatly styled hair so dark; it had been pale blonde for so long that she still hadn’t adjusted to it after all these years.

They’d never been the hugging type, but since it might be a long time before they saw each other in person again, she figured the occasion called for it. She fit her chin on his shoulder and set her hands in between his shoulder blades. Jakob squeezed with sturdy arms wrapped around her. “Call or write when your powers manifest. We’ll come home immediately. Huge party, wouldn’t miss it.”

Jakob smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t _let you_ miss it.” His eyes lightened. “You’re gonna be great. Show them what mutants can do.”

“I imagine they’ll have a hard time forgetting when we’re done.”

Jakob half-smiled, half-smirked, but before he could say anything else, a small _poof_ sounded through the air and blue smoke erupted in the center of the room. Their cousin, Kurt, a deep-blue mutant with yellow eyes and a tail like his father’s, appeared in front of them. “The Professor says it’s time for you to go.”

Wanda was shocked when her heart started pounding. She blinked, forcing herself to say, “Alright.” She looked at Jakob, but he just nodded to her before walking out.

The handing-off ceremony, as they’d termed it, would take place in the courtyard that stood between the military and X-Men headquarters. The Avenger’s plane, the Quinjet, was already packed and parked there, ready to leave. Two lines of people stood on either side of the plane, one made up of mutants — Erik, Charles, Jean, Jakob, Raven, Azazel, Kurt, then General Richter for the military and Phoebe to represent the Council — and the other showed the Avengers, backs straight, faces almost expressionless. Vision, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Thor, James Rhodes, Tony Stark, and finally Steve Rogers at the head. Wanda and Pietro squeezed each other’s hands before walking in between them.

Wanda felt oddly like a woman in a period movie who was being handed off to a foreign country in an arranged marriage. The thought was so odd that she had to walk faster to keep from laughing. Her cheeks flushed when she heard a cut-off breath from Charles, who was trying very hard not to smile.

They’d already had their goodbyes, but there was one more for show. Each of the mutants said a few words in turn, some of encouragement, some of love, some of power. Kurt held onto Wanda’s hand until his mother made him let go. Azazel slapped each of them on the shoulder and said he looked forward to seeing what they would do. Jakob and Jean just smiled and gave each of them a last, fleeting hug.

Charles, intensely-blue eyes teary but not crying, said, “You’re going to do great.” _I love you terribly,_ Charles told them telepathically.

Suddenly, Wanda remembered being twelve and Jean asking why they didn’t call Charles “Dad” like she and Jakob did. Charles had gone ashen and rushed to tell her not to ask that, but Wanda, with a feeling she didn’t recognize coming over her, said, “I’ll call you Dad if you let me.”

Charles had stared at her, eyes wide, until Wanda started to feel like she’d done something wrong. But then he smiled, that genuinely happy and loving smile that he reserved for family, and said, “I would love nothing more.”

The memory almost stopped her in her tracks — if she kept going, everything would change and she didn’t know if it would be good or if she would be able to fix it if it wasn’t — but then Erik set a gentle hand on her arm, urging her forward. “We’re proud of you,” her father said, looking at each of his oldest children in turn. “All of Genosha. We could not have chosen better.”

The weight of their father’s expectations had never been heavier. She was so unsure of herself that she wanted to turn and run home and hide in her closet until everyone left. Instead, she smiled, kissed her _Vaters_ cheek, and turned to face her new team.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chanukka = Hanukkah/Chanukah (German) 
> 
> I should note that this fic’s Wanda is not MCU Wanda. It is a new, different version/adaptation of Wanda who I don’t hate and who is actually Romani-Jewish. Don’t know what the straight white guys over at Marvel were thinking when they wrote and cast their Wanda.


	16. Baseline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Jakob's once-close relationship starts to show cracks. Phoebe attempts to comfort Jakob. Erik and Charles argue about their daughter.

The Academy Gym was well-lit and well-cleaned, the smell of lemons lingering under that of sweat and blood and pool water. Divided into two floors, in addition to outdoor features like the archery range and the games field, there were fire and waterproof rooms where mutant children could practice their powers as safely as possible, weight rooms, and places to spar with or without their gifts.

It was the last of these where Jean and Jakob met three times a week, sometimes under Erik’s watchful eyes or the tutelage of Mystique, but sometimes on their own. They were alone now, trading blows and sucking in harsh breaths when one landed. Jakob was moving slowly, tired after being up all night reading, and he was caught off-guard when Jean moved too suddenly, knocking him back.

Jakob spun, face smacking hard against a wall before he fell to the ground, vision blurry. He groaned, running a hand over his face. His nose was bleeding.

“Oh, _Scheiße_ ,” Jean muttered, running over to him. “Are you okay?”

He groaned, muttering something indecipherable.

“What?”

“I said I’m _fine_ ,” Jakob snapped, standing back up. He was dizzy on his feet, but it didn’t stop him. He raised his hands, slipping back into sparring stance. “C’mon, hit me again.”

Jean stared at him in disbelief. “Jakob, you _literally_ look like you’re about to pass out.”

“M’good,” Jakob said, wincing at his own quiet, cracking voice. “I can pass out if I feel like it. Just keep going.”

He took a step forward before swinging out a fist, but Jean saw it coming a mile away. Rather than engage, she stood back, lifted her hands palms-out. Jakob froze mid-movement, blue eyes wide.

Hands shaking, Jean suddenly let go, backing up from the effort. Her twin stared at her. Jean waited for his rebuke, for him to say something, _anything_ , but he just kept _looking_ at her, as though this were the deepest betrayal he was capable of imagining.

Jean shifted, suddenly feeling deeply ashamed. She hadn’t done anything like that in years. After a disastrous sparring session only weeks after her abilities first manifested, Dad established a rule: no using her powers while training with her siblings unless a parent or teacher was around and she had permission.

They were alone.

But what was she supposed to do? Jakob was going to wear himself down too hard, too fast if he kept on like this. He didn’t know how to quit. Especially when he worked himself into a mood. He was as bad as Papa like that.

Sweat drying on his forehead, blood still dirtying his porcelain face, Jakob suddenly turned his back to her, snatching his coat up from a peg on the training room wall and walking away. “I’m gonna go see Beast,” he said shortly. “I need something for my head.”

Jean winced. Jakob wasn’t just mad, or else he would be slinging insults and attacks. No, this was much worse. He was _hurt_. And not just his nose.

“ _Please_ , Jakob, I didn’t mean it—”

“ _Save it_ , Jeanie,” Jakob grit out, opening the door and pausing. “Maybe keep your powers to yourself in the future.” He slammed the door when he left. Jean stared, standing in the middle of the room for a long time, alone.

* * *

“Calm your mind,” Charles said serenely, sitting with his legs crossed in front of his daughter and absently making a mental list of things he had to get back to the Council on. “Think only of the present moment. The grass under your hands, the clouds, the smell of the ocean.” Not to mention there was the upcoming Council election, Raven’s reports, the new irrigation system, Hank’s requests for research approval, and Wanda and Pietro would be sure to write them soon, and there was always _something_ at the Academy and University . . .

Perhaps he could stand to take his own advice for once.

He made an attempt, reminding himself that this time was for him and Jean only and everything else could wait. Erik wasn’t home, busy with military logistics or training or something else that Charles preferred to leave to him, so he couldn’t sink fully into his husband’s mind the way he would normally. He tried not to think at all, allowing his own thoughts to fade into the background, joining a sea of minds made up of students and teachers at the schools and workers and X-Men. Soon, he was spread thin enough that he couldn’t pick out a particular mind or thought even if he wanted to. Instead, he was treated to a monotonous hum, the aggregation of hundreds of minds at work, angry, sad, happy, quiet, loud, and everything in between. It was oddly peaceful.

Then something spiked. A mind lashing out, making him instinctively reach a hand back to the grass. In an instant, Charles was brought back to himself, big eyes blinking in confusion as he stared.

Jean was flopped backwards on the ground in open irritation. Charles sighed internally before reaching out. “Jeanie?” To his surprise, she flinched, as though it hurt to hear the nickname. “Dearest, what’s wrong?”

Jean sighed, moping like the teenager she was before eventually speaking. “It’s Jakob. He’s mad at me.”

Charles nodded in understanding. _NOW it makes sense._ “Can I . . .” He trailed off, mentally nudging her mind like knocking on a door. Jean shrugged before letting her psychic walls fall, allowing him in.

Charles sifted through Jean’s thoughts — chaotic, disorganized, loud, the opposite of how she appeared to everyone else — before quickly finding her memories of earlier.

_Oh. Oh, dear Jakob._

Despite his son’s poor behavior, Charles couldn’t help but feel for him. If Jean was capable of hiding the sheer _loudness_ of her thoughts, than Jakob was the opposite, frustrated and anxious and wearing it on his face, as easy to read as a picture book made for slow children. Charles knew what he was upset about. It was popular gossip for the island’s inhabitants that Voice and Imperator of Genosha’s own son did not appear to be a mutant.

Charles must have tried to comfort Jakob about it a thousand times by now, assuring and reassuring him that without the sort of dangerous or traumatic events that happened to Jean and Erik, some mutations just wouldn’t show up until later. But now Jakob wasn’t buying it. How much later could it get? He was sixteen, almost seventeen. It wouldn’t be _impossible_ for him to manifest so late — the latest natural manifestation anyone knew of was at nineteen, anything later was the result of experimentation or a suppressed mutation coming to life under the most dire, stressful of circumstances — but it _was_ unlikely.

And Jakob knew it.

Returning to the matter at hand, Charles ran his palm over his face, sighing tiredly. “Let me speak to your brother, Jean. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.” It was Charles’s and Erik’s responsibility, not hers, and they would handle it.

“I shouldn’t have used my powers on him,” Jean groaned, more to herself than to her father. “I knew it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t thinking.”

Charles’s heart leapt into his throat. That _was_ a problem, but hopefully one he could nip in the bud now.

“You _do_ need to be more careful, Jean,” he said gently, like he was coaxing a spooked horse. “Nothing happened this time, but controlling your brother’s body like that — he could have been seriously hurt.”

Tears stung Jean’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she insisted, more for her benefit than anything else, “but it’s hard sometimes to control them and I didn’t want him to get hurt even worse. And Papa’s been trying this new method during training—”

She stopped mid-sentence, as though realizing she was in the middle of divulging a secret. _Too late._ “Jean? What has he been teaching you?”

Jean bit her lip guiltily, but seemed to realize that there was no point in hiding. Sparing a thought for her poor _Vater_ , she explained, “Well, he told me what you said one time about rage and serenity. That we’re our most powerful when we find the place between the two extremes and learn how to balance ourselves perfectly.” Fearing she’d explained it poorly, she rushed to add, “He wasn’t doing anything _wrong_ , Dad, he was just trying to help me control myself—”

Pressing two fingers to his temple, Charles stopped Jean, pausing himself for a few moments until he could speak without giving away his emotions. “Jean, I understand what he was trying to do, but Erik should _not_ have taught you about that. That technique is for older mutants who already have control of their abilities, those trying to unlock their full potential. You’re not there yet. You need to have your gifts _fully under control_ before you can even think of anything that advanced. Otherwise, you could hurt someone, or even yourself.” Unspoken between them lay the earlier incident with Jakob. “Do you understand?”

Slowly, Jean nodded, seeming even more miserable than she had earlier. Charles’s heart ached for her. Of all the children he’d known over the years, it always hurt worst when it was one of his own in pain.

Charles crawled over slightly to where she was spread out. Jean, acting on instinct and a need for comfort, sat up enough to rest her head on his leg, allowing her father to lightly play with her hair, doing and undoing a braid. “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, dear. Neither of you did,” he insisted, secretly feeling that Erik _had_ in fact done something wrong, and they were _definitely_ going to talk about it once Erik got home.

But what Jean didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Charles shoved those thoughts down where she wouldn’t find them and focused on comforting his daughter. “You didn’t hurt anyone, alright. Jakob will be fine. And you’re still my little girl.” He drew careful fingers through her long red hair until she was sleepy and peaceful and ignorant to the wars raging in his mind.

* * *

When Jakob arrived, Phoebe was standing on a stool in the Academy Garden, pruning the leaves of a lemon tree and occasionally plucking bad fruits to turn into compost or particularly good ones for baking. She knew instinctively when he was there, and would have known even without her gift. She didn’t say anything, made no move to greet him or ask if he needed anything. She simply kept at her work, content in the knowledge that he would speak when he was ready. After a minute of sitting in silence, Jakob rose and came over to the tree, grabbing a stool for himself and continuing her work on the other side. She hummed her acknowledgment.

They worked together in what appeared to be contentment, but she was aware of the anxiety bleeding off of him into the air. _Just a moment now._ Phoebe stepped down from the stool and sat in the verdant grass, moving her basket of good lemons to the side as she waited for him to speak.

Jakob ran a hand through his dark hair, finally sitting down across from her. When he spoke, his voice was lacking the sureness that he usually carried himself with. “What’s wrong with me, Phoebe?”

“Nothing,” she said promptly before tilting her head. “Except perhaps a tendency to take out your frustration on yourself and others, but that’s nothing that a good therapist or empath can’t help you with.”

Jakob started to roll his eyes before stopping himself. “I’m _serious_.”

“So am I.” He was young, but she remembered when he was younger still, wide-eyed with pale hair that wouldn’t darken until he was a child. Charles said it had something to do with melanin release with age, but Phoebe liked to think of it as simply another aspect of Jakob that came and went with time. Some days she awoke and he was still that pale little boy, and some days he was nearly a grown man . . .

But then, he always seemed a little boy to her.

“You are, in ordinary circumstances, a perfectly kind and brilliant young man. There is no reason to believe you won’t grow into something greater still.”

“But I’m not . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say he wasn’t a mutant. Instead, he said, “I’m _human_.”

Phoebe shrugged. “We’re all human. _Homo superior_ is a subspecies of human, not a completely different thing entirely. There’s nothing wrong with that.” She paused — and it made her wonder at herself sometimes, that she still managed self-doubt even when she knew exactly what she would do and what would happen as a result — before adding, “Sometimes you listen to Erik too much. He doesn’t know everything.”

Jakob scoffed, flopping backwards on the ground and looking up at the sky. It was going to rain later. It rained often in Genosha. “Well, he knows a lot of things.”

Phoebe sighed. In all the years she had and would know him, Erik was not and never would be a person who changed his mind easily. He might be willing to work with humans when he had to, and Charles had convinced him to allow humans to live in Genosha if they were married or directly related to a mutant living on the island. But though he rarely spoke of it now, Phoebe knew that he still believed war with humanity was inevitable. Genosha had a standing army despite the fact that it was typically the X-Men who handled silly things like robot attacks or rogue mutants. The almost-Chitauri invasion of New York had been the most action they’d seen in a decade. But Erik still put them through their paces, still trained five days a week, still insisted his soldiers know how to use human weapons and hand-to-hand combat on top of their powers, and still made _The Art of War_ required reading at the Academy. At the very least, they wouldn’t be caught off guard if anything _did_ happen . . .

But one need only talk to Jakob to see the effects that kind of mindset could have.

“You know Jakob, Erik would love you no less if you never manifested. You could be the most boring, baseline human in the universe, and he would still think the world of you.” That, at least, was true. There was no force in the universe capable of turning Erik from his children, not even himself.

“I _know_ ,” he huffed, caught between irritation and fear. “It’s not about that.” He sat up suddenly, waving his hands together in an attempt to articulate his meaning. “Do you ever feel like there’s something just . . . _off_ about you? Like, you know what you are and you know what you’re _supposed_ to be, but somehow they just don’t _match up_ like they should?” When Phoebe didn’t respond, he continued. “I’m _supposed_ to be a mutant. It’s in my genes. But for some reason, I’m just . . . _wrong_.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you Jakob,” Phoebe repeated, gentler this time. “Not a single thing.”

He scoffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always known what you are _and_ what you’re supposed to be.”

Rather than wait for her to say something else, Jakob pushed off the ground, headed anywhere but there. Phoebe sighed when he left. There were some things even she couldn’t fix on her own.

* * *

When Erik got home, rain dripping down his coat and face, Charles was already waiting for him, standing in the kitchen with his hands on the back of a chair. Erik stopped in the doorway, taking him in. There were delicate minutiae to the way Charles held himself, to the way his forehead creased and the hard glint in his eyes, that only Erik could fully decipher. There was a specific look for every occasion, anger at human governments or ambassadors, annoyance at the students or teachers at the Academy, then a whole set for his family. Though Charles rarely used it, Erik knew his husband’s face for when he was mad at him well.

This was that face.

Erik slowly removed his coat, hanging it on its peg on the wall and slowly walking into the kitchen. Well, at least he hadn’t been having a good enough day to ruin.

“It seems like a waste of time to ask if you’re mad.”

Charles tilted his head slightly, just enough to cast his blue eyes up. _Extremely upset._ “What have you been teaching Jean?”

Erik sat back on his heels, not bothering to hide his own surprise. That wasn’t what he expected. Maybe Charles _didn’t_ know about the incredibly unflattering things he’d said about the Avengers to a Wakandan ambassador. Small mercies.

Although this might actually be _worse_ depending on what Jean had done.

“She was frustrated by her lack of progress. I tried a new strategy.” He held a hand low at his waist, feeling for the necklaces and bracelet that Jean wore, or Jakob’s black rings and cuffs. His blood froze when he found neither.

Charles rolled his eyes. “They’re fine, Erik, they’re just staying with Raven for the night.”

Erik relaxed, but not entirely. If the twins were away, then it meant Charles was well and truly pissed off, which meant that something had happened.

Charles caught his train of thought again. Rather than explain, he pushed their daughter’s memories of that afternoon into Erik’s head — Jean and Jakob’s training session, Jean freezing her brother in place, and what she told him after it happened. Erik drew a hand down his face. “ _Scheiße_.”

“You _knew_ I didn’t want Jean learning that,” Charles accused. “And you _know_ why.”

“I know,” Erik said quietly, well aware of his mistake. “I thought it would help her. I was wrong.”

“If _anything_ ever happened to Jakob because of Jean, she would never forgive herself. If anything ever happened to _any of our children_ because of our mistakes, I’d never forgive _myself_. Jean needs _control_ , not power.”

“Don’t you know I feel the same way!” Erik snapped back. “I would rather die than see any of them come to a moment’s pain! But Jean is not _stupid_ , Charles. And she’s definitely not _weak_. Though I’m sure it would help you _relax_ if we kept her in a padded room for the rest of her life, that’s not how it works.”

“Oh, so you think we should _encourage_ her?” Charles demanded, growing more and more upset by the moment. “Let her do whatever she wants, get so powerful she rips herself and Jakob and probably the entire damn _island_ apart?!”

“Well, what do _you_ think we should do?” Erik asked, almost _snarling_.

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Charles shouted, voice cracking at the last moment. “I _don’t know_. I just want them to be okay.”

Both of them stood across the kitchen table, staring at each other as the anger slowly drained out of them. They weren’t good at arguing with each other. They could keep it up for a few minutes, and only _really_ fought once or twice a year, normally about the children, who were always either oblivious or shocked to realize that their fathers were actually capable of being mad at each other for any period of time.

Still, when Erik went to draw Charles into an embrace, Charles stopped him with a hand to his chest. “We’re a team, Erik. You can’t go behind my back and try something that we both talked about and agreed it would be a bad idea. If we’re to have any chance of protecting the children . . .”

“I know,” Erik said quietly, reluctantly. “But sometimes I fear for her.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scheiße = Shit (German) 
> 
> I realized at some point over the week that Jean and Jakob would have posh British accents when speaking English because Charles raised them . . . it makes sense for Jean (hey Sophie), but I think it makes Jakob mad. He’s over here doing everything he can to emulate Erik and everyone’s just like “you sound just like your dad!”
> 
> Oh, also, happy late New Year!


	17. Kinetic Energy Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Wanda adjust to their new job and go on their first Avengers mission.

New York was cold.

Logically, they knew this wasn’t always the case. It was late in the year when they arrived. Snow would start to fall soon. But the summers were hot, and spring and fall were apparently lovingly temperate. The idea was familiar and odd at the same time. They had lived in America as children, but sixteen years in Genosha had left them unused to the reality of distinct seasons. On the island, it was either occasionally rainy or especially rainy, warm or warmer. Charles had to custom order them sweaters and heavy winter coats before they left.

The second thing that surprised them was how dirty it was. At home, it wasn’t uncommon for people to walk around without shoes, allowing their toes to dig into the grass and sand and soft dirt. New York was concrete and trash and bad smells and broken glass, and Wanda had to remind herself to put on shoes before she went outside. Put together, the city was larger than Genosha, but it felt smaller somehow, the tall buildings and long streets crowding them and closing them in, blocking off the horizon, completely opposed to Genosha’s natural expanses. There were beaches, but it was too cold to swim. There were rivers, but they were filthy, and you were likely to be arrested if you tried to bathe in one. Even the _air_ seemed dirtier. Wanda walked outside in the morning and was momentarily confused by grey light.

And the _lack_. Lack of grass, of trees, of flowers, of songbirds, of salty air, of sweet-smelling fruit trees and plentiful farms and gardens. Wanda missed walking outside for fresh purple figs from their family garden. She knew that Pietro missed the feeling of sand under bare feet.

Both of them missed their family.

Obviously, it wouldn’t be very _diplomatic_ to say that. So instead Wanda looked out over the city from the glass walls of Stark Tower, wondering if anyone could see her, and said, “It might be nice to see a play. I’ve never been to one.”

The Avengers, all of whom had been awkwardly silent the entire flight, were startled to hear her speak. Not wanting to be lost in silence, she continued, “Unless you count school plays. But that’s not the same as a Broadway production. Cheaper, for start.”

It was a poor excuse for a joke, but it was also the first attempt anyone had made at breaking the tension. Stark half-smiled, an expression Wanda was sure would have made Erik side-eye him suspiciously. “Sure. I’ll buy some tickets, we’ll make a day of it. Any preferences?”

Wanda brightened. “Shakespeare maybe?”

Pietro sighed in that half-fond, half-mildly irritated way that defined siblinghood. “She was Lady Macbeth _one time_. Now she thinks she’s an actress.”

In response, Wanda simply snapped her fingers, red sparks flitting between them as the chair Pietro had been leaning against collapsed, fast and sudden enough that he was actually startled for a moment, though he didn’t follow it to the ground. Pietro huffed. “Rude.”

Wanda half-smirked, pleased with herself until she caught site of the humans. They looked wary, not amused. Brought back down to earth, she remembered that this wasn’t Genosha, and people didn’t use their powers casually like at home, like it was a normal part of them ( _because it was_ ). Her cheeks grew hot, but before she could say something — apologize, maybe, explain or try to play it off — Steve Rogers nodded to the hall, as tight-lipped and awkward and polite as herself. “Your rooms are down here. We can help you get your stuff—”

Pietro didn’t wait for him to finish, speeding past them in a barely-visible flash of silver. He breezed through again a few seconds later, coming from the opposite direction this time. Wanda shook her head, following her brother down the hall at a slow pace, finding the two half-open doors and peering into one. Pietro was lying down on the bed with his eyes closed as he listened to music. His stuff was already unpacked, clothes hung up and personal effects — photos, books, journals, cassette tapes, headphones, goggles, Walkmans — neatly placed around the room, his silver converse (spray-painted, to Charles’s horror) by the door. It wouldn’t take long for the room to become messy. Only now it was likely to stay in that state longer than normal without Papa to tell him to clean it.

The thought made her throat tighten unexpectedly. They hadn’t really had enough time to miss their family, but she knew they would _soon_ , and somehow that was enough to do it.

Pietro, as though sensing her sudden shift in mood, opened his eyes, looking at her. “You okay?”

Wanda forced herself to nod. “Fine. Just gonna put my stuff away, then lay down. I’ll be out in a couple of hours, probably.” She left without waiting for a response.

The Avengers had dispersed, probably wanting to give them time to settle in without crowding them. Wanda was grateful. The last thing she needed right now was people trying to make her feel better. It always just made her feel guilty for taking up their time. Well, unless it was Dad or Pietro. Her brother because they were twins, so close that sometimes it seemed he was as much a part of her as her own arm. Charles because it was impossible to feel bad when he was being nice to you. His presence was so kind and warm, it was like being wrapped up in a big blanket, even without his telepathy.

She sighed at herself. Reminiscing wouldn’t help any. Especially not about _that_.

Still. Perhaps she _would_ go see Pietro after she rested. No point in isolating herself from the only person here who understood her. That’s what Dad would tell her to do, anyway, and she always took his advice, even if she didn’t like it.

Making herself take a step forward, she looked into the other room. It was a good size, but apart from the trunks Pietro had left at the foot of the bed, it was plain and bare. The walls and floors were white, and there was a full-sized bed, a nightstand, a desk and chair, a closet, and a window. It was nothing like her room in Genosha, with her window seat for reading and glass-and-metal lanterns for light, the scarlet walls and dark wooden floors, the wardrobe that Papa had made for her with a special compartment for all her simple jewelry.

But the window had what counted for a view in this city. It was a start.

Closing the door behind her, Wanda opened a trunk and began to unpack.

* * *

“First mission,” Pietro said, to no one in particular, though it was his sister who listened. “I’m nervous. I feel like a virgin at prom.”

Wanda scrunched her brows in resigned disgust. “Don’t be gross, Pietro. We have a job to do. Let’s focus on that.”

“Yawn. Since when are you all work and no play?”

Both of them were standing in the travel compartment of the Avenger’s Quinjet while the rest of the team either flew the ship or prepared their weapons for when they landed. One of the benefits of being a mutant, he supposed. They always had their weapons at the ready.

“Since we joined a hero team that’s _always_ in the public eye. Since our country and people’s reputation depended on us. Since we landed in New York.”

“You need to have some fun, sis,” Pietro said, ignoring her worries. “No point in stressing yet. Wait until we’re fighting the bad guys.”

“You will not have to wait long.”

The twins jumped about a mile in the air when a new voice appeared. Pietro yelped when he saw the red, green, and gold android that was half-phased through the wall he’d just been leaning against. Vision either didn’t notice or flat-out ignored his distress. “We will be landing in a few minutes.”

“Dude, _boundaries_ ,” Pietro said, still weirded out by the fact that the Avenger had just been partially standing _in him_. “Seriously, if you were one of my dad’s students, you’d get detention for walking through people.” He considered it before adding, “Without asking.”

Vision made a very awkward, aborted attempt at a shrug that suggested it was a movement he’d seen before, but never made himself. “Apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Wanda muttered, wanting to avoid an argument. “We’re just jumpy.”

Vision half-nodded before appearing to wonder if he should make some attempt at comfort. “I am sure you will do admirably. Everyone has faith in you.”

Wanda was pretty sure that was a lie, but it was a lie she needed. “We’ll be ready.”

Five minutes later, and she wasn’t sure she was living up to her promise. Regardless, it was too late to back out. They landed, setting down someone in a wooded area where the cloaked plane was unlikely to be disturbed or noticed. The entire team stood in the crowded Quinjet as Steve Rogers went over the plan. “This man has information on the human-mutant trafficking group we’re looking for. We find him, contain him, and interrogate him. He has an extensive criminal history, so expect a fight.”

Despite his warning, Wanda felt herself relax slightly. The mission seemed very straightforward. Hell, they’d done more complicated stuff with the X-Men and Papa’s teams. If all went well, they probably wouldn’t even need most of the team’s intervention — including herself and Pietro. Maybe it was cowardly, but she would gladly take the time to just get used to being in a team and prep work before they actually went into the field.

Pietro, looking over her shoulder at the packet of intel that Black Window had handed them, frowned. “He’s a mutant?”

“Seems like it.”

The man in the picture was handsome, with neat stubble and shiny, wavy dark-brown hair that didn’t quite reach his shoulders. It was immediately obvious that he put a lot of effort in keeping it in good condition, especially if he stuck to the streets most of the time. His long brown coat was stylish, mysterious. You didn’t have to be a telepath to know he was vain. 

Obviously, this information paled in comparison to his black-and-red eyes.

“What’s his story?” This was giving Pietro a bad feeling in his stomach. He could only imagine what Papa would say if he knew that their first mission involved essentially abducting and interrogating a fellow mutant. Pietro didn’t particularly like it himself.

Rogers — Captain America, they ought to use code names while they were working, Papa would respect that — explained, “There’s a lot of gaps in our knowledge of him. He appears to be in his early to mid-twenties, and is involved with a group known as the Thieves’ Guild. Accordingly, most of his criminal history has to do with robbery, heists, burglaries. A few bar fights. I’m sure there’s more we don’t know about.”

Pietro frowned. Guy didn’t even sound violent. Or at least no more so than anyone else who had a few too many every now and then. “Seems a bit extreme. Ever consider just asking the guy?”

“SHIELD attempted to approach him a week ago,” Black Widow said, arching a brow at him. No doubt the superspy was going to be evaluating them as much as anyone they fought. “He was uncooperative.”

Pietro rolled his neck. “ _OK_ , but did you talk to him like a person, or did you send some creep human spies to ask him suspicious questions?”

No one answered him.

Wanda elbowed her brother in the stomach. “Can you _not_ , right now?” The last thing they needed was to seem uncooperative and rude on the first day. Granted, her brother didn’t have many other modes when it came to non-family, but still. 

Pietro rolled his eyes, but finally stopped talking. It took a few seconds for Wanda to relax. When she did, she nodded to the Captain to give him the go-ahead. They set out to go at the same moment that Wanda realized she would be taking over Dad’s job of managing Pietro’s moods. _Great._

New Orleans was surprisingly hot and muggy for the time of year, a stark contrast to what stepping off the Quinjet into New York had been like. Despite his mood, Pietro liked it. It reminded him of home — nice and humid, not dry and cold. He stretched his arms and legs, not even minding the leather jacket he was wearing. He didn’t bother covering his silver hair, though Wanda had tried to talk him into it before he left. They were six super recognizable people whose job profession was literally “Hero” coming to kidnap the guy, he didn’t imagine it would matter if he had five seconds of not recognizing them.

“Where are we headed?” Pietro asked.

“A mutant bar in the French Quarter,” the Captain explained before rattling off an address. “Tony already bugged it and put cameras in. Should be quick, we’ll send Nat and Clint in and out—”

“He’s gone,” Wanda pointed out. 

“And— what?”

The others looked around, quickly realizing that Pietro had run off. Wanda sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “ _Fuck_.” 

They ran back to the Quintet, Stark shouting orders to the A.I. he had programmed in the plane to bring up video and audio from the bar to a screen in the main room. And—

“There he is,” Wanda said tiredly, immediately recognizing her brother. He was lounging in a booth next to their target, spinning an empty glass on his pointer finger while the man looked on in a mixture of absent shock and amusement, apparently as surprised as them to see Pietro there.

The Avengers stared at the screen for a long time before Tony Stark shrugged and sat down. “Might as well see what he does.”

* * *

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The man sat back in the booth, taking in the silver-haired mutant’s sudden appearance, his jacket, his gunmetal-grey leather pants, his half-charming half-trickster grin, and smiled back. “I don't get a name?”

The thief had a thick Cajun accent, though the author wisely chose not to reproduce it phonetically, and Pietro found he liked the sound. “Do you want one?”

Gambit rested his chin in one hand, the leather of his fingerless gloves smooth and supple. His glasses were tinted red, casting the man in a rosy light. “Guess it depends on the name.” 

“Does Quicksilver work?”

He smiled crookedly. “It’ll do.” He held out his hand to shake. “Gambit.”

Pietro took the hand and took his time shaking it. When Gambit let go, he let his fingers draw over the other mutant's hand and wrist—

Pietro drew his arm back, removing something from it in a flash. “Looking for this?” He asked, holding up the designer watch Gambit had been trying to steal from his wrist.

The smile quickly slid from Gambit's face. He gripped the glass Pietro had been playing with, preparing to charge it—

Pietro carelessly tossed the watch on the table before leaning back in the booth. “Tell you what? You get the watch, and I get . . .” He paused as though considering. “. . . to buy you a drink.”

_(“That's my watch,” Tony said, watching with genuine disbelief. “He stole my actual fucking watch—”)_

Gambit blinked, clearly trying to figure out if he was serious or not. Slowly, the corner of his mouth perked up. He put the glass back down. “Not as much fun if you just give it to me.”

Pietro grinned. “I promise to make it _plenty_ fun for you.”

Grinning, Gambit waved over a waiter, asking them to bring a bottle of bourbon and something called absinthe with fresh glasses. Pouring a cup for each of them, he asked, “You been in the city long?”

“Passing through.” He’d hard bourbon before from his dads’ cabinet, but the green stuff was new. Pietro took a sip, choking making a face at the strange, herbal taste and something that reminded him of licorice. “ _Ugh_ , that’s _disgusting_.” He paused before holding the glass out. “More please.”

Gambit obliged him.

“I actually just flew into the states a few weeks ago.”

Gambit raised a brow. “Where from?”

“Genosha.”

The other mutant half-nodded to himself, his suspicions confirmed. It had been all over the news and the papers, the recent addition to the Avengers team of two hand-picked mutants. He’d heard just about every opinion on it, good or bad, and he knew enough to know that there were plenty of people, mutant or otherwise, who weren’t happy about it. He also knew that there wasn’t a rat’s chance in any circle of Hell that this didn’t have to do with the people who wanted to “talk” to him the week before.

Now, if he wanted, he could have the bar flooded with guys from the Thieves’ Guild in five minutes . . .

But where would be the fun in that?

Gambit gestured around, drink in hand. “Guess you’re not so impressed with our little establishment here, then? Comin’ from the mutant capital of the world an’ all.”

Pietro shrugged. “To be honest, it just feels good to be around mutants again.” That was something he hadn’t really said out loud, but it was a growing feeling he had the longer they were here. He _knew_ , objectively, that other places weren’t Genosha. He’d lived in the U.S. for the first seven years of his life, even got used to people calling him “Peter”.

But somewhere along the way he’d forgotten what it was like to walk down a street and be aware of how _different_ he was.

“Almost like being home.” He tapped his once-more empty glass on the wooden table. “But I guess you don’t get a lot of mutants as impressive as you over here.”

Gambit, smiling, was about to ask if he wanted a demonstration — just something small, a card trick really — when Pietro continued, “I mean, those _eyes._ Saw those even through the glasses. Very special, even on the island.”

Gambit leaned forward on his elbow, surprised. He didn’t think anyone had ever complimented his eyes, except maybe to say they made him look frightening, a fact that was usually said with a tone of grudging respect. He doubted anyone had ever said it the way this guy did, like he thought they were pretty or something.

Curious at the possible reaction, he pulled his glasses down. Dim, hazy yellow light filtered into his view as he blinked. Pietro was openly staring at him, chin centered in his palm. In open spite of his usual bravado, he actually felt the slightest hint of a nerve. What gave this guy any right to stare at him like that?

He was about to put his glasses back on when Pietro finally spoke. “ _Wow_. Now _those_ are eyes.” Black sclera and pupils, with rings of scarlet in the middle. He looked like something out of a movie. “I've always hated how boring my eyes are. Even in my family, my sister and I are the only ones with brown eyes!” And Magda, but no need to bring up unpleasant topics. “Everyone else has some kind of blue or bluey-grey-green thing. Then I’m sitting over here like, yeah, I _also_ have eyes.”

A grin broke across Gambit’s face. “Ah, but they are such bright eyes, _chéri!_ Not to mention your hair.” Moving a little slower than usual, he reached out and took a lock of Pietro’s hair in his hand, playing with it with his fingers. “Shines like real silver.”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Now I _know_ you’re flattering me.” A beat passed. “Keep going.”

* * *

“Is he always like this?” Tony asked, laying back in a chair as he watched the screen, wishing he had a bowl of popcorn.

Wanda shrugged. “Only when the guy has an accent.”

Another hour, and Wanda was sitting with her legs crossed under her and a book in her lap, only half paying attention while Pietro and Gambit laughed uproariously.

“I’ve _never_ heard of a game like this,” Pietro insisted even as he held his head to the side, exposing his neck to Cajun as he sprinkled salt over Pietro’s pulse point.

“Trust me, it’s real.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to stop you.”

Gambit grinned before leaning in, licking a long stripe up the column of Pietro’s pale throat before laving attention on his pulse, feeling the hummingbird-like thrumming of his heart. Without thinking about it, he bit and sucked on the spot where his neck and shoulder met, knowing he would probably leave a bruise and enjoying it.

By the time he finally stopped, pulling back with his hand still on Pietro’s thigh, both were panting slightly, pupils blown as the bar’s other inhabitants carefully looked anywhere else. Then Pietro said, “Weren’t you also supposed to do a shot?”

Gambit smiled. “Oops. Forgot. Désolé.”

When Gambit invited him to “taste” the tequila after he’d already downed it, Captain America snapped. “He’s not getting anywhere except this guy’s bed. We should just do what we planned—”

“Pietro has this under control,” Wanda said mildly, having moved onto a magazine after finishing her book. They didn’t have magazines on Genosha except on the rare occasion that someone brought them over by plane or ship. She wasn’t sure she liked it. _I should have brought another book._

“Um, I don’t know if you noticed this,” Iron Man began, “but your brother is drunk flirting with the criminal we’re supposed to get information from. He’s drunk _even by my standards._ How is this—”

“He’s not drunk.”

Which was so absurd that for a moment, the rest of the team just alternated between staring at her and staring at the screens. Pietro had drunk a not entirely healthy amount of bourbon, absinthe, more than a few shots of tequila, and was now staring, enthralled, as Gambit regaled him with blatantly made-up stories about running in alligator-infested bayous and fighting turf wars with the aid of a voodoo priestess.

“He’s sure as hell not _acting_ sober,” Hawkeye deadpanned.

“Pietro doesn’t get drunk,” Wanda continued, ignoring him. “Not for more than like, three minutes. Ever. It’s his metabolism. He couldn’t stay drunk if he tried and he eats about eight thousand calories a day. I think Dad’s still crying in relief now that he doesn’t have to feed him.” She paused, looking up. “And Pietro _never_ acts sober.”

* * *

It was getting properly late when Remy, as Gambit finally said to call him, leaned over to whisper in Pietro’s ear. “We should go to a hotel.”

And while there was honestly nothing in the world Pietro wanted to do so much as that, he recognized an opportunity where he saw one. “Why not your place?”

Remy hummed, lips pressed against the sensitive spot under Pietro’s ear. “Hm . . . not a good idea, _mon ami_. Not very . . . _safe_.” He thought that would be the end of it, but Pietro pressed on.

“Don’t know how I feel about that,” Pietro said, trying to inject a bit of fear into his voice without being obvious. “I’ve heard that this town isn’t exactly safe for mutants. I think it would be pretty bad for the afterglow if we’re snatched out of bed in the middle, y’know?”

Remy shifted uncomfortably in the booth. Pietro’s warmth, which a moment ago had seemed so welcoming, now made the back of his neck heat up anxiously. Normally he’d just brush off what the other mutant said, maybe warn him not to talk about things like that too loud where others could hear. But the month had been hard. Whispers spread in bars like this, about mutants picked off in barely-lit streets and clubs and bars around the Quarter. If this place was safe, it was only because of his reputation and protection.

But Remy had limits, and Remy had enemies. Just a week before, he’d heard that one of the kids he’d taken under his wing after her parents kicked her out was gone. (On Genosha, they called the moment where a mutant’s powers appeared _manifestation_. He thought that was too pretty a word for the violence that usually followed everywhere else.) Not even nine years old, and just _gone_ , like she never existed. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the bar to numb that.

“You know something about it, don’t you?”

Remy flinched, having forgotten for a moment where he was, what was happening. Even with his head foggy, he could tell that this guy was trying to get information from him.

But he kind of wanted to give it.

Remy tapped his glass on the stained, chipped table, watching a thin layer of bourbon lurch from side to side as he did. “If I tell ya’ this,” he said, trying very hard not to slur his words, “how I know I ain’t gonna end up sleeping with the catfish?” More importantly, who would take care of _his_ cats if he did?

Pietro smiled in a way that would have made Remy suspicious if he weren’t so drunk and if the silver-haired mutant weren’t so cute. “So you’ve never been to Genosha?”

* * *

From there, things actually went quite smoothly. They managed to find the trafficking ring, hidden out in a converted warehouse. Though this part of the city was still fairly active, there was a block-wide radius where no one dared get too close. Wanda frowned as they got closer, her heart pounding, veins tights and hot like she’d had too much caffeine. “Definitely mutants in there. This feels like one kid at the Academy who can make the people around them scared.”

“Extra layer of protection,” Pietro said, thinking the same thing. Their training at the Academy had encouraged them to always think of unique ways that mutant powers could be used. This was an easy one, but it didn’t affect them as much as it might someone else. Charles trained them in shielding their minds for years. It didn’t come naturally to them like it did to him or Jean, but his effort hadn’t been fruitless, and they put it to good use now.

Wanda took over first, flickers of red crackling between her fingers as she stared out the windows and concentrated, drawing her hands around in front of her. Old streetlights fell down and onto the hoods of cars. Trucks suddenly went out of park, rolling backwards onto the street or forwards into brick buildings. Locks and doors jammed, leaving everyone trapped inside.

After a few minutes, she nodded. “They’re cornered. Could be more dangerous that way.” _Don’t back a venomous snake into a corner_ , she remembered, her internal voice more like Papa’s than her own. _I can’t tell you how man people I killed when they thought I was harmless and they were invincible._

Some of Papa’s advice were things you probably shouldn’t say to a thirteen year old.

“We’ll try to create an opening,” Captain America said, pulling on his helmet and making sure his shield was in place. “Black Widow, Vision, and I will channel some of them outside, Scarlet Witch and Hawkeye can pick off the stragglers. Quicksilver, I want you to run in, grab the kids and anyone else they’re holding in there, get them to safety, and keep an eye on them.”

“I’m assuming the rest of us will take over the kicky-punchy part of the fight then?” Iron Man snarked. The Captain glared at him before nodding his assent.

Wanda sat alongside the archer from the open floor of the Quinjet, watching with mild concern as her brother ran in and out of the old building, each time carrying young mutants on his back or in his arms. He moved so fast, she couldn’t tell where he was taking them. She felt some concern, curling in her stomach, but she tried to think of what Erik or Charles would say. Pietro knew what he was doing. He was a powerful mutant, with years of training and not-inconsequential field work. _He’s got this._

“Your brother’s fast,” Hawkeye — Clint Barton — said out of nowhere.

Wanda started a bit before regaining her composure. “He is. Definitely. We clocked him a few times. Fastest known mutant.” It was a conscious effort not to ramble. She did that when she was nervous, and she was determined not to be nervous (or at least not to let anyone _know_ she was nervous).

Hawkeye nodded. “Are you guys . . . settling in well?”

Luckily, they were needed in the fight before either of them had to make a further effort at small talk. Perched on the edge of the plane in her black Chelsea boots, hands and fingers twisted around as she pulled down walls and trees and lights and took out wheels and engines. She calmed as she put her power to work, and soon her nerves were forgotten. _This_ was what she was good at. Other people could say that her position on this team was blatant nepotism, and maybe it was, but she knew what she was capable of. This was nothing more than a chance to flex her muscles, and she delighted in the exercise.

It was over before they knew it, and oddly anti-climactic. She watched detachedly as traffickers were loaded into SHIELD trucks, hands cuffed, bruises purpling into existence on their faces.

“What’s going to happen to the kids?” Wanda asked, surprising herself.

Clint frowned and shrugged. “Back to their families, most of them.”

Despite her determination to make a good impression and get along with everyone, Wanda scoffed. “These are mostly mutant kids. Their families won’t take them.”

She whipped back around, looking outside with her eyes trained steadily ahead. She muttered, “Shouldn’t have said anything. Whatever. I’ll handle it.”

They fell back into their awkward silence. She had no idea what he was thinking about, but she was already trying to figure out her next move.

When their work there was done, the Quinjet took them to the nearest SHIELD headquarters. Wanda jumped from the ship while it was still fifteen feet from the ground, making the grass-and-moss ground softening to absorb the impact. She stood straight, fixing her skirt and making sure her burgundy turtleneck was still neat and clean.

Pietro was already underground when they got inside, leading a small army of mutant children in singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” at the top of their lungs. As they entered, one of the SHIELD agents shot them a look that roughly translated to “ _Please help us_ ”.

Wanda shook her head. “Nothing stops Pietro once he gets going on a Queen song,” she quietly informed the others. “Not even mind control. He’s like a jukebox. You just have to let it play out.”

“ _MagnificOOOOOOOOOOO_ —”

Wanda winced. “Give him a couple of minutes.”

They did, eventually, stop, which everyone but the children was grateful for. Pietro was many things, but he was no Freddy Mercury.

With a napping child on his hip, Pietro wandered over to them as the children dispersed, being questioned by agents who tried very hard not to be threatening. “Everything go okay? Wanda?”

She nodded. “It went well. And the kids?”

Pietro shrugged. “They’re scared, but I talked them down a little bit. They know this isn’t permanent, and I think they believe me when I say no one’ll hurt them, but I can’t answer most of their questions.” He was gently swaying, for once slow as he tried to keep the child he was holding, an underfed girl of about seven or eight with bones growing from her back and face, asleep. “Where are we taking them?”

“SHIELD will take care of it,” Natasha informed him, seeming no worse for wear from the fight earlier, not a hair out of place or speck of dust where it didn’t belong. It kind of creeped the twin mutants out, how eerily calm she was every second of the day, nothing unexpected to her, nothing unknown.

 _Still._ “Okay, but that’s not, like, an actual answer. I mean,” he gestured to the girl on his hip, “I know for a fact that Marrow here is living on the streets. Where’s she supposed to go? Gonna give her to some human foster home where they don’t understand her?”

“No one’s saying that.”

Pietro rolled his eyes, muttering, “Well, you don’t have to say it.”

Without warning, he passed the girl into Wanda’s arms, saying, “I’m gonna go for a run. Be back in ten.”

Then he was gone, breezing past them with a literal breeze. Wanda sighed internally, shifting Marrow in her arms so that she didn’t have bone growths poking into her skin. She shushed the young girl when she started to wake, gently rocking her like Pietro had, trying to remember when Dad would be taking care of Jakob and Jean when they were little. Of course, she was at a disadvantage. She didn’t have telepathy.

Things got worse when another child, a mutant who appeared ordinary at first but whose tongue was blue and forked, started crying. Vision, who happened to be standing closest, looked on in mute horror as they threw themself on his leg, lip trembling as tears streamed down their face. “I want to go home!”

Wanda, still trying to keep Marrow from waking up and wreaking havoc, walked over as quickly as she could, kneeling down and setting a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Hello, dear. What’s your name?”

The child sniffled. “Alex.”

“Alex. What a nice name. Where do you want to go?”

“Home!”

“Alright. Where is that?”

“I don’t . . .” Their brows scrunched up in exhausted confusion. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Do you have any family?”

Slowly, they shook their head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t want to be here anymore. The grown-ups all have guns. I don’t like them.”

Wanda nodded, understanding. Probably the child had been abandoned or given up for adoption young, maybe as a baby. They didn’t have a home, but understood that the word meant something good, something safe. “Are you tired?”

Alex nodded.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, and when you wake up, things will be simpler.”

The child, younger than Marrow, sniffled. “How do you know?”

“Because I will _make_ things simpler,” she said in the sure tone that she knew evoked Erik, his certainty and protection. “Will you let me sing to you?”

Unlike Pietro, with his ever-growing collection of pop and rock music, Wanda could only do one song, a lullaby that Erik used to sing to them when they were upset or crying or sick. It was in Polish, a language she had an even worse grasp on than German. But it was one of the few things Erik had from his parents, and Wanda had long ago memorized the lyrics and melody. “ _Rest my child . . . the day is over . . ._ ”

She had to cycle through the song six times, but by the end, several of the children had gone to sleep in chairs, couches, or even right on the floor, exhausted after the long day. Wanda herself was close to nodding off, and almost jumped in the air when someone spoke to her. “You are very good at that.”

Wanda leaned back, now with multiple children piled on top of her, like she was a hot water bottle that they had to share. It was Vision speaking to her, with his not-quite-human eyes and oddly British accent that vaguely reminded her of Charles, though with a mechanical undercurrent to it. “Excuse me?”

He gestured to the mutant children that had attached themselves to her. “At comforting them, I meant. I would not know how to start.”

Wanda ducked her head, oddly flattered at the praise as it was never something she’d thought she was particularly good at. “I’m just copying Dad, if I’m being honest.” Truthfully, seeing people scared or crying always made her feel unbearably awkward. The only thing she could do was think back to how Charles would comfort young mutants who’d been uprooted from their comfortable lives, or rescued from horrific circumstances, or kicked out by their families. It wasn’t exactly the same, but the broad strokes were enough to get them through the day. “He’s the comforter.”

Vision tilted his head to the side, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “I had not considered the Imperator in that light.”

Wanda frowned in confusion. “Papa?” It took a few seconds of going over what she said before she realized the mistake. “Oh! No, Charles is Dad. I guess that’s not obvious to someone who . . . doesn’t know . . .”

Before her discomfort could return in full-force, the door opened, allowing Pietro to return, standing between them as he used a small spoon to eat from a cup of frozen lemonade. “Hey guys.”

“That was more than ten minutes,” Wanda pointed out, sullen.

“Who are you, Papa? I’m not gonna stop by the island without getting a frozen lemonade and not everyone moves as fast as me. Lay off.” There were pomegranate seeds sprinkled on and throughout the lemonade, a Genoshan delicacy and one of Pietro’s favorites, making it one of the few things he was willing to wait for. “ _Also_ , I figured it out. You’re welcome.”

* * *

Their trip home was not long-lived. They had to get in touch with Genosha’s contact to SHIELD, who pointedly reminded the agency that any mutant child who did not have a family to care for them had the legal right to come to Genosha if they agreed. From there, things were out of their hands, but Wanda kept abreast of the situation. The children who were old enough school went straight to the Academy, now under the care of dozens of mutant teachers and a small team of therapists. The younger ones were placed in new homes, each of which was telepathically checked by Charles after Wanda asked for his help. They really didn’t have to go to Genosha at all, but they did just so Dad and Papa could make sure they were settling in well. Charles was there when they were done, beaming as he drew each of them into a hug.

“I heard all about it already,” he said, squeezing Wanda, who did not even have time to wonder if someone told him or if he read it from their heads before he moved on. “You both did so well.”

“It was nothing,” Wanda said, instinctively downplaying it. “Pietro did really well, though.”

Charles chuckled. “Yes, I saw that. Please tell him that if he has time, Mr. LeBeau was asking after him when he arrived.”

Wanda sighed internally, recognizing that now Pietro would want her to invent an excuse for them to stay for a few more hours. _Great._

She spoke to Pietro first, who didn’t even wait for her to finish speaking before speeding off. Shaking her head, she wandered off on her own, needing time to decompress.

Of course, she didn’t even get that.

Erik found her sitting in the forest by the river. She remembered training there as a child, so long ago now. She still returned to that spot sometimes to think (or, more accurately, to _not_ think). She didn’t hear him coming, but she knew when he was there. He stood behind her, leaning back against a tree. When Wanda looked up, he was smiling.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, injecting rare warmth into his tone. “Both of you. You did exactly what you should have done.” Moving to kneel beside her, he added, “It was smart to come to us before telling them what you were doing.”

Her heart instinctively leapt at her father’s praise — it wouldn’t be fair to say Erik was unloving, but affection came slower to him than Charles.

But another moment, and she realized what he meant. He wasn’t praising their fighting ability or powers, which he’d never doubted, but that they’d prioritized their loyalty to Genosha and mutants over the Avengers.

An ability he _had_ apparently doubted.

Wanda ducked her head so her disappointment didn’t show. “Just doing what you taught us.”

Erik smiled wider, leaning over to place a gentle kiss to his daughter’s temple. “I’ve taught you everything you need to know. It’s up to you now. I know you’ll do great things.”

Wanda arranged her face into a small smile. “I only want to make you and Dad proud.”

Erik chuckled. “You already have.”

* * *

Wanda traveled to another uninhabited part of the rainforest, intending to look at some colorful birds while ignoring everyone, when she was once more startled by Vision appearing out of nowhere, though this time he at least had the decency to do so in front of her. Wanda huffed, staring at him. “I should bell you.”

Vision, not entirely understanding her, simply moved past it. “We were wondering where you were. The others want to leave soon.”

She shrugged. “Just waiting out Pietro. I’m _definitely_ not going to go get him. You don’t pay me enough for that.”

Vision frowned. “I hadn’t planned to pay you—”

“Don’t.” Wanda shut her eyes, leaning back against a tree several times wider than her. “I just want to stay here for a while longer. I miss the trees. There are no _trees_ in New York.”

“Trees are maintained in certain neighborhoods, as well as multiple parks.”

She shook her head, frustrated. “It’s not the same. They’re not . . . _home_.”

Wanda could remember being small and just coming to the island, living in the base in the middle of the forest. She and Pietro would climb trees taller than buildings, run around and trip over roots, and take cover under giant leaves when it rained. When Jean and Jakob grew big enough, they would take their younger siblings on piggyback rides through the forest, not caring whether they stayed near other people or their dads. _What could hurt us on Genosha?_

“I miss the green,” she said finally. “The warmth. The smells. I miss picking my own food for breakfast. Do you have anything like that? That sense that something’s missing?”

Vision frowned. “I don’t have a preference for temperatures and smells. I perceive them only as chemicals and the vibration of molecules.” Wanda looked away, feeling a disappointment she didn’t understand, until he continued. “But . . . sometimes there are things I do not know or experience which I would like to. It is not quite the same as missing something. Rather . . .”

“Longing.” Wanda finished for him. “Yeah.”

They shared a look of commiseration. For a moment, Wanda felt as though someone _understood_. Then the Android dipped his head respectfully and flew away, towards the field where the Quinjet was parked.

Wanda dropped her head back against the tree. _Finally_ , she thought. _Some peace._

* * *

Pietro was the last to board the Quinjet, humming “Don’t Stop Me Now” with a truly obscene grin.

Wanda arched a brow at her brother. “You certainly took your time.”

Pietro shrugged, never losing his smile. “Yeah. He had a really complicated cat tree that we had to set up.”

This was not, strictly speaking, a lie. There had in fact been a cat tree that they put up between the second and third rounds, along with a set of wall steps that the cats kept trying to get on as they were going up until Remy moved them into the bathroom. They’d actually turned out really well. The furniture, not the cats, the cats were absolute demons.

Of course, _other_ things had also turned out well, but he wasn’t going to tell his sister that.

Still. He could tease a little. “You know, I never considered the benefits of not living with a pair of telepaths before.”

Wanda shivered instinctively in fear. “Oh, God. Can you imagine if you tried to bring someone home and Papa was there?”

Pietro laughed. “ _Someone_ would die in that situation, but I'm not sure who.”

“Not Papa.”

“Well, _no_ , obviously.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair as Pietro continued on about Remy’s cats. She stared out a window as the Quinjet rose, taking off. _Goodbye. Again._ She was getting awful used to leaving her home.

By the time they made it back to New York, everyone was ready to go to sleep. Wanda toed her boots off, ready to throw away the damn tights she’d been wearing for what seemed like days now as she stepped into her room—

Where Vision was waiting.

Wanda jumped back, clutching her chest. “Damn it— _privacy, please_. Even when I lived with Dad, he would at least ask permission before invading my privacy.”

“My apologies. I was aware you were going to sleep and wished to speak to you first.”

He was holding something in her hands. She frowned, looking at it with growing comprehension. “Is that . . .”

“A fig tree.” He held the potted plant out to her. “I was informed by a woman named Seeder that this particular variety can grow indoors. I thought it might make you feel more—”

“At home?” Wanda asked, genuinely smiling for what felt like the first time in a century.

“That was the idea.”

Entirely aware that she was mimicking Erik’s shark-grin, Wanda took the potted tree, carefully holding it against her stomach. “Thank you. Honestly, this is . . . this is really sweet. I mean, I’m not the best gardener, but I guess we’ll see if it lives.”

“I am glad you like it.” He inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

As he walked past her, she said, one last time, “Thanks, Viz.”

Vision paused, looking back at her. Then he left, phasing through the door.

When he was gone, Wanda stood in place, inhaling the plant’s sweet scent. She smiled.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad French:  
> chéri = sweetheart  
> Désolé = Sorry  
> mon ami = my friend 
> 
> [And for fun, here is a link to Erik’s lullaby from X-Men: Apocalypse](https://maths-and-books.tumblr.com/post/144762077687/polish-lullaby-from-x-men-apocalypse)
> 
> And oh boy, I did NOT expect to be posting this chapter on the same day that domestic terrorists are attempting to stage a coup in Washington DC.
> 
> In all seriousness, if you're in DC right now (or in fact, if you're in any U.S. state capitol), please stay safe, stay off the streets, stay home, or stay with a friend or shelter if at all possible. If you can, stay updated on the news. ❤️❤️


	18. Temporal Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of a frustrated baseline teen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions/discussion of the Holocaust

Genosha had four schools.

The first and most prominent was the Academy. Located between the Institute and the Imperial Residence on the grassy plateau of the eastern portion of the island, this was where mutants, as well as any as yet unmanifested members of the Imperial family, took their classes and trained to control and strengthen their powers. It was Charles Xavier’s special project and the part of the island he was most proud of, often spending more time there than at his political work. Young mutants without families were often raised at the Academy, turning the teachers and other students into a new family, a new home.

There was another school where younger children, human or mutant, went to learn the basics and make friends; it was tucked away in the center of the forest city known as Heiligtum. Four stories were divided up over two dozen rainforest trees. Another school, the smallest of the four, was used by baseline human children too old to be in elementary school and teens of the same species. There were not many ordinary humans on the island, but occasionally mutants had human children, or had adopted or otherwise taken care of them before coming to Genosha and couldn’t or _wouldn’t_ leave them behind. At a national population of around ten thousand, they never had more than a few dozen human students, and normally not that many. This school had almost all the same courses and resources as the Academy — except it did not train mutants and there was an option to opt out of self-defense classes.

The final one, nearly as large as the Academy and sat directly across from it, was Genosha’s University. There, mutant and human residents alike continued their specialized studies, often going on to join the growing community of researchers at work building the island’s own body of knowledge and expertise.

It was the last of these that was one of Jakob’s favorite places on earth.

When he was little, he used to beg Charles to take him to the University whenever he was giving a lecture on genetics. He would sit in the front row of the newly constructed lecture hall, legs swinging as he stared steadily ahead, his father’s voice a calming lull. He spoke about things Jakob didn’t understand, but he knew that they were important, perhaps the most important thing in the world. He would try his best to redraw the pictures and figures that Charles showed them, students cooing over him the whole time, even as he insisted that this was _serious work_ , thank you very much.

Now he was sixteen and once more attending University lectures. Most of his classes were at the Academy, but Charles had given him special dispensation to take advanced science courses that year after he breezed through the physics and biology classes he was supposed to be doing at his age. Now he took Astrophysics in the morning and Genetics 102 at the University before immediately heading back to the Academy.

 _This_ was the favorite part of his day. Eyes staring ahead at the boards, a Professor’s voice washing over and around him, hand flying across his notes as he just barely managed to get everything down. He liked it. Liked the smell of paper and ink, liked the octagonal design of the buildings that Erik had designed, liked taking in information that made _sense_ to him. He would have spent weeks there if he could, would have hopped from Beast’s lab to the library to the observatory, and lost himself in numbers.

But he couldn’t do that.

Instead, he walked home to drop off the books he would find himself buried in come nightfall before heading to the Academy. Jean was, as always, waiting for him in their Ancient History and Culture class in the second row from the front, ready with a smile and a snack. Today it was a bowl of orange slices, which she slid to the middle of the desk when Jakob sat down. Jakob muttered a quiet _Danke_ , quickly popping some fruit into his mouth as he pulled out his notes and textbook. “You’re running late,” Jean pointed out, even though they were still both early.

“Shut it,” Jakob muttered back, trying to force himself to remember what they were talking about in class. Mesopotamia? Egypt? Something old.

“You weren’t at breakfast either.”

“I had to get up early. Beast said I could come by to the lab to see the new X-Men suits.” Which was pretty cool. Jakob had lost track of time so bad he was almost late for Astro, but he was already plotting to get Beast and Dad to let him look at plans for the new X-Wing. This one was supposed to be able to go into space (at low levels, but still). Maybe if he played his cards right, he could go up on a test flight . . .

He froze mid-thought, staring as Jean lightly flittered her fingers, opening her canvas backpack from its spot on the floor and levitating her book and pencils out. Jakob felt his hand tighten around his pen, knuckles white.

Jean winced. She turned to her brother, a hurt expression in her sky-blue eyes. “Jakob?”

He hunkered down over his half of the desk, flipping his notebook open and forcing himself to be calm. “Ignore me. It’s nothing.” He felt like such an asshole — Jean shouldn’t have to restrain herself for _his_ inadequacy — but he couldn’t help it. Every time he saw his twin so casually using her powers, instead of sharing in her joy, it was a thorn to his hand. Painful, prodding, and impossible to ignore.

Jean leaned over, one hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to—”

Their teacher swept into the room at that moment. Jakob let out a breath of relief as Jean sat back in her chair, her hand loosely wrapped around a pencil, tapping the granite tip on a sheet of clean paper in her leather-bound journal. They were just getting into the Ptolemaic dynasty when Jean spoke to him again — in his head.

_Did I do something?_

Jakob’s shoulders tensed. _I already said it’s nothing. Can’t you just drop it?_

_I didn’t mean to upset you—_

_You_ **_DIDN’T_** _, okay? I upset myself. You’re upsetting me NOW. Will you just— just get out of my head?_ **_Please?_ **

Jean, pouting, did so. They turned their attention to the board, studiously ignoring each other for the rest of class. Still, Jakob couldn’t relax. There was a permanent lump in his throat, and he felt like there was a cord threaded through the length of his shoulders and pulled taught. His eyes burned with anger — at himself, at the word, at his DNA, even at Jean. Which only made him feel worse when he reminded himself that no one but him had even done anything wrong—

He was relieved when class ended, though only for the split-second where he’d forgotten that their next class was together too. Worse, that was their defense class. Although considering it was a course designed by Erik and often taught by Raven, it was just as much offense as defense.

“Get on the mats and get in your sparring pairs,” their aunt said once everyone was changed and in the gym room. “Now, for legal reasons, I have to remind you that you should not be _trying_ to put each other in the infirmary. But it’s not the end of the world if you do and I ask only that you use your personal judgment.”

Sighing again, Jakob went through his paces, stretching his legs and arms and back before tucking his silver Star of David pendant into his shirt. Jean did the same, putting away her various rings and bracelets before doing so. Her hair was done up in a double fishtail braid, her red tank top contrasting with Jakob’s black long-sleeved shirt. Jakob ignored her, trying to calm down and focus on his body and surroundings. Across the room, their little cousin, Kurt, twisted his blue tail around his torso. A girl who’d come to Genosha only a few weeks ago cracked the knuckles of all four of her hands.

Jakob twisted forward, looking down at the ground. _I should not even be here,_ he thought bitterly. What right had he to take up space at the Academy, training alongside them, fighting alongside them? It was his fathers’ blood keeping him there, but the same thing refused to give him what he really wanted.

By the time they were actually ready to start sparring, his mood was a dark clouding hanging over his head. He didn’t even bother trying to feel better anymore, just going through the motions so he could get home and ignore everyone until dinner.

He would be the first to admit that it wasn’t his best day on the sparring mat. His form was stiff, his mood easy to read on his face. He hardly dodged at all, allowing Jean to land hits on his arms and torso he would have ducked out of the way if he were thinking clearly. Every time, he sucked in a breath, ocean-blue eyes growing angrier and angrier. He shot back, striking out fast with his hands and feet, harder than he normally would. Sometimes Jean avoided or deflected his hits, but when she didn’t, he could tell it hurt, making her wince in pain as she danced back.

When it happened again, Jakob couldn’t take it anymore. He stopped, dropping his stance and standing still in the middle of the room, staring his sister in the eye.

Jean hesitated, looking at him with concern. “Jakob? Geht es dir gut?”

Jakob shook his head. “ _Ja_ ,” he muttered, falling back into German like they often did when it was just them or they didn’t want other people to know what they were saying. “Das ist gut.”

Then he turned and walked out of the room, ignoring Mystique when she called after him.

Jean, of course, was not so easily deterred. She ran after him when Jakob didn’t respond to her calls. He tensed when his sister wrapped a hand around his upper arm, growing still as she circled in front of him. “Was willst du?”

Jean took his hand, unclenching it and putting his black rings and cuffs into his palm. Jakob didn’t say anything, just curling his hand around them. “Danke.” He tried to walk away, but Jean didn’t let him. “Was nun?”

Jean didn’t say anything — at least, not out loud. When she spoke in his head like this, it didn’t sound like any one language. It didn’t sound like anything. It was a feeling, a sense of knowledge. They understood each other much better like this than when they spoke.

 _What’s wrong, brother? Let me help._ A series of half-formed memories of two children, one with copper-red hair to her waist and another with blonde locks so pale they were easily mistaken for white. When they were small, they were all but joined at the hip. They studied together, played together, grew together, slept in the same room. If one of them was crying or had a bad dream, the other would crawl into their bed to comfort them, singing Papa’s lullaby and laughing at each other when they inevitably got the words wrong. 

That was an eternity ago now.

Jakob grabbed Jean’s hand and twisted out of her grip. “I’m not a child anymore. And neither are you.” He stared at her, the corner of his mouth twisting. “What?” He spat out, spiteful and venomous and _angry_ , mostly at himself, but if Jean was going to keep pushing, he would push back. “Going to freeze me again? Wrap your hands around my brain and force me to be that person again?”

Jean started, stepping back as though struck. “No!”

“Yeah?” He said, voice rough, throat straining, eyes burnt. “Then _stay out of my head._ ” He stormed past her, relieved and guilty when she did not follow.

* * *

“Jakob. Öffne deine Tür.”

Jakob winced, hearing his _Vaters_ voice. _Fuck._ He hadn’t gone back to class after storming out — a fact that struck him as supremely childish now. He ought to have at least _tried_ to stick it out until Spanish, a class where he could sit apart from Jean and ignore her properly.

Putting his textbooks to the side, he slowly stood and did as he was told. Erik stood outside his door, face blank. Even Jakob, who had more experience in parsing his moods than most, couldn’t tell how mad he was. “Ja, Vater?”

Erik was dressed for a walk, light jacket covering his arms, boots on. “Komm mit mir.”

Jakob tensed but didn’t argue, quickly grabbing his own hooded jacket to follow, leaving his shoes behind. They walked downstairs, not seeing anyone as they went. The house had felt emptier ever since Pietro and Wanda joined the Avengers, but now it seemed abandoned, neither Jean nor Charles making any noise, if they were even there. They left the house, walking in silence away from the large buildings on the plateau, past the farms and labs and small-scale factories until they made it to the line where rainforest met grass. Jakob thought they might be headed towards Heiligtum, but instead Erik turned onto a lesser-used path, towards the river that ran through part of the forest before opening into the sea. They came to stand beside a drop, where the river formed a small waterfall and pool, calm and shallow enough that Jakob could remember playing in it as a child alongside Jean (always alongside Jean). Erik stood, looking into the water. Jakob, trying not to draw attention to himself, did the same.

When Erik spoke, still in German, Jakob was stunned into silence. “I named you for your grandfather. Jakob Lehnsherr.”

Jakob turned to his father in genuine confusion. “You never told me that.”

“It’s hard for me to think about. Pietro and Wanda don’t know about this. Jean doesn’t, unless she looked in my mind and had the grace not to say anything. I’ve spoken to your father about it . . . well. _Spoken_ is not the right word. He knows, let us leave it at that.”

Jakob nodded in acknowledgement. Erik did not speak about his past often, preferring to focus on Genosha and the present, but they knew bits and pieces. Their father was a Holocaust survivor. He had survived horrible things, things he still didn’t speak about but that kept him awake sometimes if Charles didn’t help him sleep. Jakob distantly remembered being young, perhaps five or six, and asking what the numbers tattooed on Papa’s arm meant. Charles had turned pale and rushed to shush him, but Erik stopped him. Papa had knelt down and explained that bad people had taken him from his home when he was young and put the number there to show him that he was _less_ than human, that he was as an animal, worse than a pig or cow, and they could do as they wanted to him and his body.

“But we know better, don’t we, Schatz?” Erik had said, a small smile lighting on his lips. “ _We_ are more than human. And we will inherit the Earth when they are gone.”

Jakob nodded then, believing himself wise and understanding beyond his years. Erik rarely spoke about it so directly after that, but between the crumbs he gave them and their history lessons at school, they got the idea.

Now was the first time since then that Erik was speaking so openly about what happened to him as a child. Jakob didn’t know whether to feel honored or frightened.

“When the Nazis came in the night, Mama tried to convince him to run with us, but he said to go without him. He stayed behind, knowing what would happen, but he wanted to buy us time. I heard the gunshots as we ran from the house.” His words had slowed, eyes distant and lost in the past. “It was not much time in the end, but I never blamed him. He was brave, and he loved his family. That’s all a man needs to be.” Erik turned, facing Jakob, who almost stepped back at the suddenness of the action. “Did I teach you to hate yourself over something you can’t control? I never wanted to.”

Tears burned Jakob’s eyes. His throat was tight and pained. “I want to make you proud. I want to be like you.”

A pained smile took over Erik’s face. “You’re already more like me than is good for you. And you have always made me proud.” Erik cradled his son’s face with one hand. “You are an honor to your grandfather’s memory. My parents were not mutants, and I love them no less for it.”

 _Love._ Not loved. Jakob wondered if, despite never speaking of them, Erik still missed and loved his parents as though their deaths had just happened. Then he wondered if he would feel the same if he ever lost Jakob or Jean, Pietro or Wanda. He didn’t want to bring his father such pain.

“I’ll try to remember,” Jakob said quietly, lowering his eyes in respect.

Silence filled the space between them. Erik reached out, wrapping an arm around Jakob’s shoulders and pulling him close, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry,” Erik whispered. “It was my mistakes that did this. I failed you. But I won’t again. I swear.”

Jakob shut his eyes and hugged Erik back, silently asking himself if that was a promise either of them would be able to keep.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German:  
>  _Geht es dir gut?_ = Are you alright?  
>  _Ja. Das ist gut._ = Yeah. It’s fine/good.  
>  _Was willst du?_ = What do you want?  
>  _Danke. Was nun?_ = Thanks. What now? (thank you, @yanitchka on tumblr for that)  
>  _Öffne deine Tür. Komm mit mir._ = Open your door. Come with me.


	19. Visual Perception Manipulation I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers visit Genosha and Wanda has an enlightening talk with her dad.

At six am sharp, Wanda, wearing a silk robe, opened Pietro’s door, grabbed him by the ankle that was hanging out from his blankets, and promptly dragged him from his bed.

Pietro keened like he’d been stabbed. “ _WHY?_ ”

Wanda ignored him. “Get up, get dressed, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes and you were supposed to be ready by now.”

“I. Want. _Sleep._ ”

“Come on, we’re cutting it close already. It’s two pm in Genosha and it’ll be at least eight by the time we get there.”

“I want to sleep!”

“Would you rather sleep or live?”

“ _S_ _leep!_ ”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Be dressed.”

“Stab me!”

Ignoring him, Wanda returned to her room, shutting the door behind herself. There were two outfits laid out on her bed. One was what she’d become accustomed to wearing in New York: a long-sleeved burgundy turtleneck shirt, black miniskirt, tights, Chelsea boots, and a black velvet choker. Beside it was one of her Genoshan dresses, wine-red with a long, flowing skirt and sleeves of the same, made more interesting by the sheer horizontal panels along the stomach and bottom of the skirt. She’d never been much of a jewelry person, not like Jean, but she had a few of the hammered-style bracelets and necklaces that Erik had given her over the years. She hadn’t taken more shoes out, but she had a pair of lace-up sandals that were good for walking on the beach, and sturdy enough to stand up to even the roots of the rainforest.

_I’ve already spent too much time worrying about this_ , she thought to herself, letting out an irritated breath. Really, a part of her would like to just not go. It wasn’t like she and Pietro _never_ saw their family now. They came home for birthdays and major holidays, like Passover and Yom Kippur, and she enjoyed that. But this was not a holiday. This was not a birthday. This was a _Dinner_. Erik and Charles hadn’t invited them home — they’d invited the _Avengers_. It was the most uncomfortable mixture of personal and political she could imagine, and she would have refused to go if she could.

But Wanda knew as well as the others that an invitation from the leaders of Genosha to the Avengers was not really an invitation at all.

In the end, she erred on the side of caution by pulling on her Genoshan dress, even though it felt weightless and flowy in a way that she’d never really liked. By the time she left her room again, Pietro was sitting on the dining room table, shockingly ready to go. Unlike his sister, Pietro had never heard of caution and probably never would, so he wore a band tee under his silver jacket, now adorned with a variety of pins he’d picked up around the city, goggles perched on his head. Sometimes she wished she could be half as carefree as her twin. Other times, she wanted to tear her hair out wishing he would be just ten percent more aware of things other than himself. 

Just ten percent.

Soon, they were on the Quinjet, headed for Genosha. _Home._ They would only be there a few days, but she did not look forward to being the intermediary between the Avengers and the mutants. And she _would_ have to be. Genoshan mutants were slow to trust outsiders, especially humans, and _especially_ humans with powers who were revered while everywhere else, their kind remained feared and hated. It wasn’t just humans who protested their position on the Avengers.

Really, just the way she wanted to spend a vacation.

“Are you going to tell them about Vision?” Pietro asked out of nowhere.

Wanda immediately felt her cheeks burn, cursing her brother for not just going back to sleep. “There’s nothing to tell.”

It was a lie and they both knew it. The truth was, she didn’t _know_ if she would tell their family about . . . _whatever_ it was that existed between herself and Vision. On one hand, she was something of a traditionalist. She wanted to tell them before it became serious. She wanted her fathers’ approval. On the other hand, she had _no idea_ how they would react. She’d never been in a real relationship before, too nervous and unsure of herself. And Vision, damningly, was not a mutant. He was not even human. He was, if anything, more awkward than her. It was a recipe for disaster.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Pietro said cheerily. “Whatever happens, we’ll all be dead one day, and then it won’t matter.”

“. . . Thanks?”

Pietro gave her a thumbs-up, then immediately went to take a nap. Wanda shook her head.

The Quinjet flew fast. In less than twenty minutes, they’d gone so far that the sky had blazed through sunrise and now was pleasantly blue and bright. She stationed herself in front of a window, watching the world pass by as they flew over endless seas. After a while, Vision came out from the cockpit to stand beside her, a silent sentry. Neither spoke. She smiled.

They arrived what seemed like far too fast. Wanda shook Pietro awake again, watching in dry amusement as he shot up, shouting that he hadn’t started any fires and they couldn’t arrest him.

Like before, the jet landed in the courtyard outside the X-Men headquarters. The Xavier-Lehnsherr clan was already standing in wait. Charles and Erik, Jean and Jakob, Azazel and Mystique and Kurt. Wanda was briefly pleased to see that Jean's dress was almost identical to hers, only sage-green instead of red. Jakob, of course, did his own thing as always, with a long-sleeved charcoal shirt under a heavy black overcoat, not even seeming to notice the island heat that everyone else was enduring.

Before the door lowered, Steve Rogers gave each of the Avengers a look. “Remember,” he said, politely stern, “this is a diplomatic trip. Be polite, stay sharp, don’t start a war.”

Pietro pouted.

The door opened. They walked down in lines of three, Pietro and Wanda and Vision in the second row. Steve and Tony and Natasha, the de facto leaders, were in front. It was kind of odd to see them all in the same place. No one in her family tended towards the uber tall and muscular model that was the Avengers norm. Erik was the tallest at 6’1”, but he was built more like a greyhound than a gorilla, with a slim waist and lean muscles. Jakob was the same, but Pietro was built more like a runner, Charles and Wanda were small, and Jean was only half-grown into her curves. She didn’t know why the contrast stood out to her so much then, but it did.

The Captain nodded to the crowd that had come to meet them. “Imperator, Voice. It’s a pleasure—”

A sharp _crack_ sounded through the air, and Wanda stumbled in place as someone suddenly wrapped themselves around her, catching a flash of dark blue and skinny arms. Relaxing somewhat, she managed to pat her cousin’s hand. “Nice to see you too, Kurt,” she said gently. “Could you try not to break my back, though?”

“Oh,” he said, and in a quick _poof_ stood a foot away from her, smiling awkwardly. “Sorry, Wanda.”

She smiled, hiding a wince as she rubbed her shoulder. “No harm done.”

Her aunt, Mystique, smiled crookedly. “He’s been practicing all year. You have no idea how much he’s wanted to show off to someone who hasn’t seen it already.”

“And why should he not?” Azazel asked, his Russian-accented voice warm, even as his eyes slid over the Avengers with something like suspicion and something like contempt. “His range has improved greatly. Soon, he will be able to cross the island in one leap,” he boasted.

Kurt beamed before grabbing each of his older cousins by the hand and dragging them over to the rest of the family, ignoring the Avengers entirely. Tension broken, Charles moved next, sweeping each of them into an affectionate hug. Wanda squeaked when her dad squeezed her tighter than normal.

“Wanda, Wanda, Wanda,” he said, sounding oddly mournful. “My only child who hasn’t betrayed me.”

Wanda pulled back in confusion, looking at each of her younger siblings. Jakob was obviously trying to hide a smirk, the corner of his mouth twitching. Jean, her red hair in a fishtail braid, shrugged with a guilty smile.

Jakob stepped forward, face breaking into an open grin. Wanda slowly froze as she realized what had happened. She could practically _feel_ the confusion wafting off the Avengers, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “You _didn’t_.”

He shrugged. “Can’t stop a growth spurt, sis.”

Her little brother — her own flesh and blood, seven and a half years her younger, who she’d carried around as a baby and given piggyback rides to when he was a toddler — was taller than her.

She stared at him in abject horror. “How . . . _could you?_ ” Despairing, she had a sudden thought that made a cry catch in her throat. “Jeanie?”

She looked at Jakob, then at Jean. Her worst fears were confirmed. They were, as always, the same height. Both of them taller than Charles, Wanda was now officially the shortest person in the family.

Pietro couldn’t help it. He laughed.

* * *

The good thing was that due to the messed-up time zones and jet lag, they were able to go to sleep after a small meal at Genosha’s Embassy. One of Charles’s many beleaguered assistants showed the other Avengers to their rooms, but Wanda and Pietro followed their dads and siblings home. Pietro automatically fell back into line with the others, but Wanda paused for a moment outside of the tall steel-and-wood building, looking back. Was it even appropriate for them to stay in their old house? They were a part of a team now, and adults besides. Shouldn’t they present a united front?

Then Jakob wrapped a hand around her wrist, impatiently pulling her forward. “C’mon, Jean and I already got your rooms ready.”

She slept in her childhood bed that night, mind oddly clear and dreams soft and pleasant. _Dad’s influence_ , she thought to herself when she woke. She honestly didn’t know if he did that on purpose or not. Either way, it was hard to have a bad night’s sleep when Charles Xavier was around.

Her father smiled broadly when she came downstairs, passing her a plate of eggs and toast with a side bowl of pomegranate seeds for breakfast. “Morning, dearest.”

Erik was behind him, standing at the stove with a frying pan. “Don’t worry,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Charles just did the toast, the eggs are safe.”

Wanda chuckled, mostly at Charles’s blatant indignation, quickly sitting down to eat. Pietro was still asleep and probably would be for a couple more hours. Jean and Jakob must be at school.

Charles chatted away, telling her about everything that had happened since their last visit. Erik was a steady presence in the background, unable to keep his quiet happiness from his face.

Wanda scooped a spoonful of pomegranate seeds into her mouth, internally moaning at the burst of tart sweetness. “Pietro and I were planning on taking the rest of the team on a tour around Heiligtum. See the stores and beaches and everything, you know?”

“Of course, dear,” Charles said, chuckling when Erik ducked out of nowhere to kiss his cheek and temple. “Why don’t I meet you for lunch? Just the two of us?”

Wanda paused for a moment in surprise, but couldn’t deny that the thought was appealing. She’d realized a long time ago that Charles was the favorite of her three parents. She missed him all the time in New York, even more than Erik or Jean and Jakob. “I’d really like that, Dad.” She grinned with her teeth showing, the smile that she shared with Erik and which everyone said made them look like a pair of sharks. She wiped her mouth when she realized it was covered in red juice.

* * *

There were thousands of cities across the world, but only _one_ mutant city. Heiligtum was built into the forest and the beaches. Houses of wood and steel, mutant-twisted branches and repurposed ships, lined both the ground and the trees themselves, most of them several stories tall, with trees and apartments reaching as many as ten stories. More people lived there than on any other part of the island, more than the farms and cliffs and beaches and even the Academy. Sturdy wooden pathways crisscrossed the air above them, connecting treehouse stores and houses. Erik always said that you could tell who was new to Genosha and who wasn’t by how confident they were walking above people.

Wanda went barefoot in a pair of burgundy trousers and a sleeveless black tunic, knowing that shoes often made it _more_ difficult to walk amongst the large roots and leafy plants, not less. She couldn’t help a chuckle as her (mostly) human companions awkwardly followed, catching themselves when they half-fell against a tree or had a giant leaf whack them in the face. Grinning, light and comfortable, she pointed out some of her favorite spots. “That tailor makes all the clothes for new kids at the Academy. This café has the best frozen lemonade on the island. These jewelers make large metal pieces from steel and copper straight from the mines. This fisher has gills and swims as fast as a dolphin, and he always brings the best catch to the Academy. Pietro fell from that tree four times before he listened to Papa and stopped climbing it.”

The Avengers garnered a variety of reactions from those who recognized them, from mild curiosity to outright fear or disgust. But no one said anything as long as Wanda kept close. Here, amongst her people, she granted _them_ legitimacy, not the other way around. On the occasion that it seemed like a look might escalate into a scathing remark, she smoothed it over with her sweetest smile and a casual introduction.

She hadn’t even realized that she actually _enjoyed_ some of her diplomacy duties. Yes, it was stressful more often than not, but she was _good at it._ After Charles, she was probably the only one in her family who was better at stopping fights than starting them. Even Jean, sweet as she was, wasn’t yet as good at mediating conflict or making allies out of potential enemies as her more experienced sister. Maybe when she and Pietro returned to Genosha for good, she could become an actual diplomat.

Shockingly, Pietro _did_ end up meeting up with them when they made it to the beach. He called out to them from the balcony of a tree-tower of circular apartments, right on the edge where rainforest began to turn into beach. Her twin was wearing jeans that had been dyed silver and no shirt, waving down at them. “Gimme a minute,” he shouted down before speeding back into the apartment. He came back out soon — though, surprisingly, taking up the entire minute — wearing a Pink Floyd shirt and his converse. They didn’t move on immediately once he joined them. Instead, Pietro looked up at the tree, waiting for — _You have got to be joking._

Wanda groaned internally when Remy LeBeau walked down the spiral staircase, taking his sweet time as he did so. Being forced to relocate in Genosha did not seem to have dampened his spirits. His shirt and pants were Genoshan, that loose, breathable fabric, but he still wore his long dark jacket and fingerless gloves. He smiled crookedly at them as he approached.

“Chéri,” he said, setting a hand on Pietro’s waist and pulling him into a kiss that went on for an uncomfortably long time. When they finally broke apart, he nodded to the rest of the group. “Les amis of my chéri.”

Wanda was not fond of her potential brother-in-law.

Still, she forced herself to smile (she was sure it looked painful, but she did it). “Hey, Remy. All settled in?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s been real welcoming.” He squeezed Pietro’s waist. Wanda supposed she should be glad that’s all he did. “We goin’ somewhere?”

Wanda realized, to her horror, that she was supposed to meet her father for lunch soon — leaving the others in the tender mercies of her brother and Remy.

She looked at Vision, whispering, “ _Forgive me._ ” Her panic was mirrored in his eyes.

* * *

Charles met them at the beach, waving lightly before once more pulling each of his adopted children into a hug. “Pietro, you look so lively, it’s good to see. Wanda, you’re much too skinny, what are they feeding you in the States? Quickly, let’s go eat before you collapse. Pietro, you can finish showing the Avengers around, right? Thank you, dear.”

Charles, being Charles, did not really wait for an answer before hooking his arm in hers and directing her to the beachfront restaurant they were eating at. They sat down at a table set into the sand, looking out on the beach. It was a sunny day, no rain in sight, and people were taking full advantage to swim, run around, sunbathe, or play games. A group of teenagers were playing a mutant version of volleyball where the goal was to see who could cheat the most outrageously with their powers without getting caught (a game she used to dominate, but obviously didn’t have opportunity for in New York).

They didn’t need a menu. Almost as soon as they’d sat down, a waiter with neon green-and-purple arrived, greeting them warmly with a faint Italian accent. “Professor! It has been too long, we miss your face on the beach. I see the Avengers have not done away with you yet, Scarlet Witch.”

Wanda ducked her head with a smile. “Not yet. Now let’s see if I can make it through the next two days, sì?”

Luca chuckled. “I must admit, sometimes I hope it does not work out, for your sake. That place is not good for mutants. Come home more often, yes? We worry.”

Something inside Wanda’s chest tightened. “I’ll try.”

Luca beamed. “Now, shall I bring you two your usual order?”

“Please and thank you, Luca,” Charles said. “And can you bring us a plate of honeyed figs, per favore?”

“Of course, of course, just a few minutes.”

He disappeared into the small building that served as a kitchen. Wanda let her eyes wander, just barely able to make out the rest of the superhero team on the same beach as them. Some of them had somehow been coaxed into a volleyball game against Pietro and Remy. Thor and Vision and Tony, put up a valiant effort despite the latter not having any powers outside of his armor. Part of her wanted to join them, to dig her toes into the sand and subtly use her probability powers to send the ball into the water or make her opponents fall on their face. The other part of her was happy to watch without having to participate. There was no need to be anxious like this or worry that she had somehow caused offense. She could just be here with her dad, a silent observer, free of responsibility.

Luca soon returned with their food, chatting with them about his younger sister who was starting University next semester before leaving them to eat. Wanda dug into her bowl of salad, laden with chickpeas and grilled chicken and pomegranate seeds and sunflower oil. Every now and then, she ate from the plate of half-figs, which had been harvested at the perfect time for them to be almost painfully sweet and juicy before being roasted in honey. Hungrier than she’d realized, she soon devoured her salad bowl and half of the delicious fruit plate.

Charles watched her affectionately, slowly eating his own grilled shrimp tacos, a treat for him since they didn’t keep shellfish in the house. His eyes slid to the fig plate. “You know,” he began, gentle, “when I was pregnant, I craved these . . . I would say constantly, but really it was just at the most inconvenient times.” He chuckled. “I would wake Erik up at three in the morning demanding he go find me some figs. He always did too, even though we didn’t exactly have much in the way of stores or restaurants at the time. He never complained. After a while, he started prepping them before bed to save time. Of course, that’s when I started sleeping through the night, but then I just had them for breakfast.”

Wanda laughed with him, remembering Erik and Phoebe planting a fig tree in the backyard of the new house when she and Pietro were seven. They still had that tree. It was the highlight of their garden, a glowing symbol of Genosha and everything it provided.

Growing quiet, Charles rolled his head from side to side before looking at her directly. “You know . . . I would not mind at all if you were in a relationship with a human. And I swear I’ll bring your father around, he isn’t as gruff about these things as he used to be—” because of Jakob, neither of them said, “—and the only thing that matters is your happiness. Of course, you will have to come home if you’re pregnant—”

Wanda choked on a fig.

Her bronze face turned red, eyes watering. Coughing into a napkin, she shook her head as Charles patted her back, frowning in concern. She struggled to speak. “Dad, _no_. I’m not . . . I’m not dating anyone.” Technically true. Wanda and Vision were dancing around each other, neither committing at the moment. “And I’m _definitely_ not pregnant.” More than technically true. Biologically impossible at this point.

Charles, handing her another napkin, deflated somewhat. “Oh.” He sighed. “I suppose I got a bit carried away. Have some water, dearest, I’m shocked you can even breathe.”

She did so, eventually clearing her throat enough that she wasn’t coughing every few seconds. Before she could attempt to return to the conversation, Charles had already moved on, bringing up a debate he had with Erik about expanding Genosha’s military and the lecture on new information they’d discovered about suppressed X-Genes he was planning to give. Wanda tried to keep up, but internally, she was still turning what he said over in his head. Did her dad _want_ her to be pregnant? To commit herself to someone he didn’t even know, to drag herself home with so little to show for it—

The answer hit her with a force that almost took her breath away for the second time that day. Obvious, really, when she thought about it. _Yes_ , Charles did want that — or at least he'd like something that would allow him to call them home without the shadow of disgrace. She remembered how he’d looked at her and Pietro when they first left with the Avengers. Erik had been proud despite his personal distaste of the human group. But Charles had been worried. Poorly hidden purple under his eyes, worry lines across his forehead, mouth tight even as he smiled. She wondered, for the first time, if it wasn’t Charles that convinced Erik to let them go but the other way around.

Suddenly, the figs seemed too sickly sweet for her.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heiligtum = German word meaning "sanctuary"


	20. Visual Perception Manipulation II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro claims the title of favorite child when the Avengers come to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: anti-Semitic language (remembered) in the first scene

Pietro walked home on his own, in a pleasant mood as he passed people standing still, mouths agape.

Well. From his perspective, at least. 

It was achingly hot outside, and he had his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He’d left the Avengers waiting for Wanda on the beach, instructing Remy to annoy them as much as mutant-ly possible. He was actually surprised to find that he enjoyed the other mutant’s company so much. They’d seen each other for at least an hour or so every time Pietro visited Genosha (which he often did outside of “official” visits, leisurely running across oceans and deserts and forests on his way home), and hadn’t gotten tired of each other yet. This was, technically speaking, Pietro’s longest-running relationship at more than three works.

Probably because they didn’t actually see each other that often.

But hey, he’d take it.

He dropped out of bullet-time, as he mentally termed it, when he was within sight of the house, taking his time as he went inside and set his jacket on his hook by the door. He was humming Led Zeppelin under his breath, switching from song to song when he inevitably forgot a line, and immediately yelped when he turned around and saw Erik lurking in the kitchen doorway.

Erik managed to look surprised for a good two seconds before his expression transformed into one of vaguely-fond amusement. “Did I surprise you, Pietro, by standing in my own house?”

“Yes,” Pietro said, blunt. Erik chuckled. “You’re early.”

Erik inclined his head. “Someone was trying to talk to me about politics.” It wasn’t exactly a secret to anyone that the politics were Erik’s least favorite part of being Imperator. He preferred focusing on the military, or trying to make it easier for mutants around the world to make their way to Genosha, and largely left politics to Charles and the Quiet Council of Genosha (though that wouldn’t stop him from vetoing something he didn’t like). “Bad enough that Charles talked me into letting those people into our house, now the World Security Council _wants my help._ ” He shook his head, moving around the living room and rearranging things that Charles or Jean had moved out of place. “They should know better than to try that on me by this point, don’t you think?”

Pietro snorted. “Yeah. You’d think they’d remember the ‘78 UN summit.”

“That was only partially my fault,” Erik insisted with a smile that let you know it was really his fault. 

There was a small table alongside one wall with two chairs, right under a window whose sill was laden with brightly-colored purple, blue, and red flowers and beeswax taper candles. A chess game was perpetually on the tabletop, never seeming either won or lost. Erik tilted his head at the board before picking up a black rook and moving it forward, stealing a white knight. He smirked before looking back up. “And you, Pietro? How does being an Avenger suit you?”

Pietro instinctively shrugged, caught off guard by the question. “It’s fine, I guess. Too much talking and not enough fighting for me, but whatever.” 

Really, the sheer _number_ of press conferences the Avengers found themselves at was insane to him, as much as two or three a month, sometimes more. Pietro usually zoned out since the talking was typically left to Steve, Rhodey, or Natasha. But one instance, something he’d thought he’d put out of his mind, stood out to him. 

It was the conference just after his and Wanda’s first mission on the team. There were reporters, flashing lights, the whole shebang. And standing outside waiting for them, a crowd of people with _very_ strong opinions of mutants being on their beloved hero group.

Pietro and Wanda walked between Thor and Bruce, Pietro slinging an arm around his sister’s shoulders as though to defend her from their insults. Despite his best efforts, some things made it through. “ _Freak"_ was expected. “ _Mutie_ ” almost made him laugh because it just kind of sounded stupid. “ _Dirty Jew_ " actually stunned him for a second, partly because it was so unexpected, partly because no one had ever said anything like that to him on Genosha. For a moment, he’d actually wished Erik was there just because whoever said it would think twice before saying anything like that again — if they lived to.

 _Obviously_ he couldn’t tell Erik about that since he’d just take it out on the other Avengers when they got back. So instead he said, “I got a lot of cool pins.” He sped over to his leather jacket to show Erik, like he was a kid showing off the clay pinch-pots he made at school again (he was pretty sure his dads still had those pots, actually). He was quickly building up a collection of pins he’d gotten in New York, plus a few from when they had a mission in California and he stopped in San Francisco on the way back. Pietro had some of his favorites on now (only the best for Genosha), such as one that demanded, “How dare you presume I’m heterosexual?” in cursive. He immediately saw when Erik noticed one that said “Gays against Nazis”. Papa smiled, close to grinning, though his eyes seemed sad at the pink triangles that were a common theme.

Still, he nodded his approval. “You should show those to your father when he gets home. I know he’ll like them.” He turned to the kitchen, probably intending to get started on dinner, but stopped to add, “And I’m sure you’ve already shown Mr. LeBeau.”

Pietro choked on air.

* * *

Wanda returned home around sunset with the Avengers. Her eyes were trained on the ground, clearly lost in thought. Pietro, seeing this, ran over and fell into step beside her, bumping her shoulder. “You okay?”

Wanda shrugged. “Fine,” she said, obviously not fine.

“Liar.”

She still didn’t look at him. “I just want to go home and get this day over with.”

Well. He believed _that_.

Jakob and Jean had already returned home, the latter at work in the garden while inside, Jakob helped Erik make dinner. Wanda reported that Charles had to return to the Institute for a couple of hours to finish up his work for the day. The Avengers seemed to silently agree that it was a bad idea to stay inside the house while Erik was there without his husband to keep him in line. Instead, they gathered outside in the garden. Jean, wearing a simple silver circlet over her forehead and under her braid, seemed delighted to see them, cheerfully pointing out the different parts of the vegetable and herb patches before handing a basket to Steve and Thor and having them stand under a lemon tree as she used her telekinesis to knock fruit into them. Pietro wasn’t sure if Jean used her telepathy on them or if they were just too polite to say no.

Wanda knee-deep in herbs, back to the others as she attacked a patch of saffron with a trowel as though it had insulted her personally. Vision hovered (literally) behind her. “You seem anxious.”

Wanda scowled. “Thanks, it’s the anxiety.”

Pietro, who’d been sitting in a rocking chair trying his damnedest to make it go faster, stopped, looking at his twin with concern. He bullet-speeded over (though not before sticking a lemon slice into Tony’s open mouth), sitting on the grass beside her. “You okay, Witch?”

Wanda hunkered in further, seeming even more irritated than before. “It’s _fine_. Lunch was just . . . weird.”

“Weird?” Pietro and Vision said at the same time.

Wanda’s brows were scrunched in frustration. She gripped the handle of the trowel so tight that her tanned knuckles turned white. “It’s just Dad being Dad.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Pietro knew exactly what she meant. In a lot of ways, Charles Xavier was a good parent — loving, encouraging, exactly the person you wanted around when you, all three of your siblings, and also your other dad somehow come down with the flu at the same time. (Which happened . . . twice.) He was rarely angry, brought out the best of people, and liked to take care of everyone he could.

Except . . . sometimes he wanted to take care of people more than he wanted them to be _people_.

“I am sure he did not mean anything,” Vision said, not really understanding what was going on, but trying to be helpful.

Pietro chuckled. “Yeah, he never does.”

In an effort to be nice, he decided to help out, tending to and harvesting the basil and coriander and garlic and mint, so that by the end he was sure he smelled as good as any overpriced spice shop. Just as Wanda was starting to unwind properly, Charles returned home, all smiles and charm, a hug and a quick word ready for each of his children. Wanda was stiff when he first touched her, but relaxed into the gesture, closing her eyes and hugging him back. Jean and Pietro exchanged a glance, as though sharing a silent breath of relief.

Almost as soon as this happened, Jakob came outside, looked at them, and said, bluntly, “Dinner.”

* * *

To be fair, dinner started out well. The dining room was one of the largest parts of the house, designed to accommodate important guests and state dinners. The table was laden with bowls and plates of steaming food, white rice and spicy strips of beef and grilled chilies, salad with slices of pineapple and orange wedges, a bottle of sweet wine and a pitcher of fresh lemonade and glasses of chilled water.

“This looks lovely,” Sam Wilson said with a diplomatic smile.

“I’m aware,” Erik said.

Charles sighed. “He means thank you.”

“No he d—” Jakob began until Jean cut him off with a pinch to his arm.

“We’re very happy to have you in our home,” Jean said, ever gracious, ever Charles’s daughter. Jakob pouted. “Should we eat?”

Jakob, chin in his palm, staring directly across the table at Steve Rogers, suggested in a deadpan tone, “We could pray first.”

Pietro and Erik let out sharp, aborted laughs at the same time. That probably meant something bad.

Charles gave his husband and each of his sons a tired look in turn. _Don’t be antagonistic,_ he chided them mentally. Jakob smiled sweetly, not seeming the least bit chided as he dished out food for himself and Jean. Steve gave the table a tight-lipped look before moving on.

“I got a good grade on my Current Events paper,” Jean said quickly.

Erik arched a brow at her. “Did you read your teacher's mind?”

“Not even once.”

“Good girl.”

Things slowly settled back down as small groups and pairs of people around the table started speaking to each other. Jakob was telling Erik about his Astrophysics class and Jean asked several of the Avengers questions about famous battles or enemies. Jakob, seeing this, occasionally butted in with a smartass comment. “How tight are your costume pants? Is there a reason for the wings on your helmet? Have you ever killed a mutant? Do you ever think about dying your hair red to go with the blue eyes and white face? I think it would be a whole look.”

Pietro tried to eat slowly, but still wound up going through his first serving before anyone else even finished their salad. “Dad, can I have more?”

“Wait ten minutes so you don’t finish everything before anyone else gets a chance.”

Pietro sighed, contemplating if he could go on a run around the island for some pizza and be back before anyone noticed. To his side Wanda, pushed her food around on her plate, only occasionally taking a bite. Funnily enough, with Vision on her other side, the android was sitting next to Erik, and seemed perfectly aware of the danger of this position.

Pietro stole Wanda’s salad bowl, picking off a piece of pineapple and biting it in two. Wanda didn’t even blink.

“You still thinking about what happened earlier?”

She shrugged. “I’m thinking about something, that’s for sure.”

Pietro sympathetically refilled her lemonade glass. She thanked him by dully drinking it.

On the other side of Charles and Erik, Jakob was telling his sister about the last book he’d read, _Red Dragon_. “I didn’t really find it disturbing because it seemed so realistic.” Once more casting a glance at their avenging guests, he stated, deadpan: “Every human I’ve ever met was a cannibal.”

Erik, who had the diplomacy skills of a tortoise and absolutely no desire to be playing hosts to human “heroes”, chuckled.

Charles sighed. “ _Really_ , Jakob—”

“Do you have a problem with us?” Steve Rogers suddenly asked, giving Jakob a hard, stern look.

Jakob, being Erik’s son and having seen more stern looks in seventeen years than most people would in a lifetime, was unfazed. “I don’t really see how it’s relevant to you.”

“Really? You call me a cannibal to my face, laugh, and go back to your food?”

Jakob’s eyes widened. He gasped dramatically, putting a hand over his chest. “Mein Gott. _We’ve met?_ ”

Wanda suddenly dropped her fork on the table. “I _can’t_. What the hell is up with you, Jakob? Why can’t you just sit down and _leave things alone_?”

Jakob seemed genuinely surprised this time, staring at his sister before his brows scrunched and his mouth turned sour. “What do you care?”

Pietro mentally translated this as _You’re MY sister, why are you taking HIS side?_

“Really? You can’t just _not_ be an asshole to my friends for _one dinner_?”

“ _Neither of you_ should be talking to each other like this,” Charles tried.

“ _Y_ _ou!_ ” Wanda snapped at their dad, stunning _everyone_. “Would you stop trying to just _control everyone?_ Do you ever consider that _maybe_ people have thoughts and opinions outside of what _you’ve decided_ for them?”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Jakob demanded, as angry that she’d lashed out at Charles as when she did at him.

“What’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with _you_ , acting like you’re _so_ superior when you’re not even a real mutant!”

Jakob reeled back. At some point they’d stood up, and now he backed away from the table, as though her words were a physical blow.

Wanda’s face fell, realizing she’d gone too far. “Jakob—”

Her little brother didn’t give her a chance to take it back, face twisting in anger as he said, “At least I _know_ who I am, who my family is. I’m not _playing_ at being someone else.” He smiled harshly, like he was planning to rip someone’s throat out with his teeth. “But hey, _I_ always felt at home in Genosha. I guess it makes sense that _you_ would have to find somewhere else—”

Wanda rushed forward, hand raised, mouth open to spit more insults, but both of them were suddenly pulled back. Jakob let out a sharp breath as he was wrenched towards a wall by his rings and cuffs, unable to lift his hands more than a centimeter before they were pulled back down. Wanda froze in place, eyes wide as her body refused to respond to her commands.

Charles Xavier stood in between them, blue eyes incensed. “What is _wrong with you two?_ I cannot _BELIEVE_ that two children I raised would treat each other like this! _Both_ of you! To your rooms, now! You can come down _tomorrow_ , when you’re ready to apologize to each other and _mean it! Go!_ "

Jakob bit his lip, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. He rubbed his wrists when his hands fell from the wall, muttering, “Yes, Dad.”

Wanda, similarly released, glared. “I’m almost twenty-five,” she pointed out, sounding as young as Jakob. “I’m not a child and you can’t order me around—”

“I don’t care!” Charles snapped back at her, genuinely angry. “As long as you’re my daughter—”

“Well I’m _not_ your daughter, am I?”

Charles, Jakob, Jean, and Pietro all stared at her, mouths open. Too late, Wanda seemed to realize what she’d said. Her eyes widened. “Dad—”

This time, Erik cut her off, looking absolutely _murderous_. “ _G_ _o. To. Your._ **_Room_** _._ ”

Neither argued. Humiliated, emotionally exhausted, and still simmering in their own guilt and anger, Jakob and Wanda headed upstairs, neither saying a single thing.

. . . 

So it was somewhat awkward at that point to realize no one other than Pietro had even finished dinner and they still had to sit down and pretend everything was alright.

Pietro, still shocked that had happened, quietly ate his third helping. After several long, painful minutes, he asked, “Can I go talk to—”

“No,” Erik said shortly, not looking at him.

Jean fiddled with her hair. “What about—”

“ _Neither_ of you are dismissed.”

The remaining siblings gave each other a look, silently acknowledging that they’d tried. Pietro slumped in his chair, just wanting to get through the rest of the night.

After a few ( _incredibly_ tense) minutes, Charles frowned, looking at his daughter. Jean didn’t acknowledge him, focusing on her pile of rice . . . which did not appear to be getting smaller—

Charles reached out a hand, brushing it _through_ Jean’s forehead. She didn’t react, still eating. Charles sighed. “Well, now we know she’s been practicing her illusions.”

Erik rolled his eyes, clearly wanting to leave as much as Pietro did. Neither did so.

The Avengers were all equally wary, no one trying to start a new conversation or saying anything deeper than “please pass the salt”. Only Vision allowed his distress to show on his face, and only because he hadn’t yet learned how to hide his emotions. “I think I shall attempt to speak with Scarlet Witch. She was distressed when she left.”

“ _Please_ just let it lie,” Clint Barton muttered under his breath, probably wanting to be done with someone else’s family drama by that point.

“I will not. She has been quite anxious about this visit and I am certain she will be in need of comfort—”

“And you think you’re the best one to do that?” Pietro asked irritably. He wasn’t sure why he was so annoyed, except that this was _their_ family drama, and Wanda was _his_ twin. Unlike the witch, the Avengers still felt _new_ to him, probably because he didn’t really get along with any of them. He didn’t like Vision trying to steal his role of comfort object.

Vision frowned, still confused by some human (and mutant) things. “I care for Wanda deeply. I am aware that she feels the same. I do not believe she would refuse my presence—”

“What do you mean you _care for her deeply?_ ” Erik asked slowly, holding a knife for his steak.

 _Oh fuck,_ Pietro thought, scooting further away from Vision.

Vision also seemed to realize his mistake, but instead of denying and rationalizing as any sane human would have, he forged ahead. “I do not deny that I have . . . romantic feelings for Wanda—”

So fast that even Pietro was impressed, Erik’s hand shot out, digging his knife into Vision’s wrist, rending open the synthetic structure of his body, and exposing a complex series of cords and soft blue lights and inhuman circuitry.

Everyone jumped up from the table, shouting. Erik himself seemed shocked by what he’d done, having moved entirely on instinct. Charles shot up, blinking as he held a hand to his temple and forced the Avengers to sit back down, narrowly avoiding an international incident. When he was sure they couldn’t stand on their own, he ran over to Vision, turning the android’s arm over in concern. “Are you alright?”

Face set in an expression most similar to mild surprise, Vision nodded. “I do not feel pain. And the damage is repairable.”

Charles let out a sigh of relief before scowling at his husband. “Honestly, Erik, as though this night hasn’t been exhausting enough.”

Erik shrugged, seeming almost sheepish. His mouth twitched as though he were trying to hide a smile.

Charles shook his head, still examining Vision’s wrist. “That said, I’m afraid I do agree with Erik’s assessment. I don’t think you can be allowed to date Wanda.”

He said it so gently and casually that for a moment, no one could process it. Everyone just stared at him, trying to determine if he’d actually said what they heard. 

“Um, Dad?” Pietro asked, because _someone had to_. “Can you expand on that thought?”

Charles sighed. “While I don’t dislike you as a person, Vision, I can’t read your mind. You don’t have an organic brain. It’s fascinating actually, but unfortunately, it means that you’re somewhat of an unknown to me. I’m sorry, I just don’t think I could trust you — not with my daughter. It’s too important.”

Vision stared at him. “You consider me a threat to Wanda’s safety?”

Charles tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know if I’d go _that_ far. But if you _were_ , then I would have no recourse against you. I can’t divine your intentions. I couldn’t stop you if you were . . . well, violent. I won’t risk it.”

It was not the first time that night everyone stared at someone in open-mouthed shock, but it _was_ the last, and that wasn’t nothing.

“WOW,” Tony Stark said suddenly. “When she said you were _controlling_ , she meant that, huh?”

Charles, mouth shut, blue eyes dark, gave him a long look. Then: “I think it’s time you all went back to the Embassy. Pietro, will you help me clean up?”

* * *

Jean knocked on her brother’s door. “Jakob? Jakob, are you okay? Can you let me in?”

The moment stretched on for so long that Jean thought he would simply ignore her. Then the door opened, and Jakob looked out at her, an ink-black lock of hair over his forehead. “What?”

Jean, knowing what he was like, simply pushed past him into the room. “How are you doing?”

Jakob shrugged without answering, flopping onto his stomach on the bed. For once, there were no books piled on the pillows or comforter. It seemed like he’d just been lying there, brooding in the dark. _Bad sign._

Jean followed him, sitting beside Jakob on the bed and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Wanda shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have said what I did, so I guess we’re even, right?” His voice was bitter and closed-off.

Jean waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Before ( _When?_ , she asked herself, _Before my powers when we were children? Before he turned sixteen and realized it would probably never happen? Before dinner?_ ), it was second nature for them to tell each other everything. Jakob never hesitated to tell her what was going on inside his head even before she could see it for herself. “You don’t tell me anything anymore,” she said quietly, surprising herself when she realized she’d spoken out loud. “We used to be like one person. Now you’re so far away I wonder if I even know you.”

Jakob laughed harshly, not looking at her. “Guess I’m finally growing up.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mein Gott = My God (German)
> 
> Everyone: Can you step back a bit and let the people around you control their own lives?  
> Charles: I'm not accepting constructive criticism at this time. 
> 
> Pietro’s pins were inspired by several from [this store on etsy](https://www.etsy.com/shop/RadBadgesUK?ref=simple-shop-header-name&listing_id=550798893), including this [this](https://www.etsy.com/listing/550798893/4-lesbian-anti-fascist-leftist-socialist) and this set [this set](https://www.etsy.com/listing/537000786/set-of-4-bisexual-pride-lgbt-bi-pin?epik=dj0yJnU9UEFFOGV3WE5VRDJZZmhqR21Rd0hJb2tuWW16ZWxMdmYmcD0wJm49Z3hzbEwtUi1xaS1Xa0NaRkdRdGRoQSZ0PUFBQUFBRl91bHdF)


	21. Aquatic Respiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakob frightens everyone when he takes drastic measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warnings at the end of the chapter.

Jakob waited until he was already inside the lab before knocking. “Beast?”

Beast looked up from his microscope, wearing a white lab coat over his blue fur and sweater vest. “Once more Jakob, _Dr. McCoy_.”

“Of course, Dr. Beast.”

Beast sighed and shook his head, but a fond smile tugged at his mouth. “What can I do for you?” His hands flew across the clacking keys of his computer, no longer as nimble as they’d once been, but he’d long learned to live with it. “I have plans for the modifications to the last X-Wing, but the jet itself is pretty much ready to go if you want to see it—”

“Actually, I was wondering if you could do something for me.”

After explaining what he wanted, Beast frowned, but nodded his agreement. Jakob sat on a bench, swinging his legs and drinking orange juice while the mutant drew blood from his arm. “I’m surprised Charles and Erik haven’t already done this.”

Jakob shrugged. “If they have, they didn’t tell me anything about it.”

“Hm. Well, who knows what goes on in their heads? Maybe they have their reasons.”

“Maybe.”

There was nothing for him to do but watch as Beast portioned his blood out into a series of vials and ran it through a machine, a furrow between the scientist’s brows as he did so. It didn’t quite take forty-five minutes. Hank looked at the results in surprise as Jakob shut his eyes, fearing the worst.

“You have the X-Gene.”

Jakob opened his eyes once more and stared. “What?” Had he misheard? Did Beast misspeak? How—

Beast nodded to himself, understanding even as Jakob felt deafened, the world collapsing and rebuilding around him. “I see what happened. You _have it_ , but it’s not manifesting normally. It’s suppressed.”

Jakob snapped back into reality, hearing his heartbeat in his ears. “Suppressed?”

“This is something that happens sometimes. Your cells misregulated the gene during translation or transcription, probably while you were still an embryo, and now it can’t express itself the way it should.”

Jakob distantly realized he was biting down on the inside of his cheek. He stopped, tasting blood. _How?_ How could what he wanted be so close, yet unreachable? “Is there any way to fix it?”

Beast sighed, removing his glasses and running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. The X-Gene is . . . strange. It doesn’t work the way others do. There are geneticists who will spend their entire career _just_ studying the X-Gene. And you have to keep in mind, we’ve made great strides in genetics research on Genosha over the past decade, but this area of study is a work in progress. It’s not as simple as giving you a pill.” He paused, his eyes growing slightly distant as he remembered something fascinating he’d read in one of Mystique’s reports. “There _is_ anecdotal evidence that, since mutations typically manifest due to a sudden spike in epinephrine and noradrenaline — the “fight or flight” hormones — caused by fear or an emergency, something especially traumatic can do the same for suppressed mutants. I know Raven took a team to Quebec when they found people using torture methods to turn prisoners into mutants.” Suddenly remembering who he was talking to, Hank rushed to add, “Which is _obviously_ not an option! Not even mentioning that your fathers would never allow it, you’d be more likely to just end up traumatized, maybe even permanently injured. I know you don’t like this, Jakob, but for the time being, you’re stuck where you are.”

Jakob nodded obediently, his mind already racing, away from Hank and his lab and his answers. His fingers drummed on the bench.

* * *

Jakob learned to swim when he was a toddler, playing on the beach with his sister under the watchful eyes of their aunt and various members of the X-Men while Erik and Charles built Genosha from the ground up. He remembered floating on his back in the crystalline water, the sun hidden behind giant poofs of clouds as they began to pour rain on the island. The sky was blue, but as the sun lowered, it would turn red, washing the white clouds in swathes of blood.

Jakob lay in a pool now, staring up at the black ceiling in the Academy gym. The overhead lights were off, leaving only the shining blue ones in the depths of the water. He floated idly, skimming his fingers along the surface. Thoughts drifted in and out of his head.

He was a mutant. Or at least, he should have been. It explained the feeling he’d had since he was a child, that of something _there_ , hidden just out of reach under his skin. He was pulled in two directions, relieved and gleeful on one hand, and wanting to scream and claw at his skin on the other, as though if he bled enough he could find the powers hiding within himself and pull them to the surface.

For a moment, he was oddly peaceful. No one else was in the gym at this hour, though there were doubtless plenty of people sprinkled through the building, working on assignments and waiting for dinner and talking to their friends. He was alone.

He’d been turning the idea over in his head for the past few hours since he spoke to Beast. It was risky, especially with no one watching him, but he knew he was a good enough swimmer to pull it off. He told himself that there was no real danger before flipping over on his stomach and swimming towards the edge.

The pool was lined in white marble tiles, hard to the touch and harsh to grip. He turned onto his back, letting his legs and feet float up to the surface of the water so his body was parallel to the ground. He pressed his hands back against the wall, walking them down.

Jakob took a breath and pushed his head underwater.

The pool was filled with freshwater that didn’t sting his eyes, though it distorted his vision, making the ceiling seem oddly-shaped and far away. His nose burned. _Just hold on._ He’d held his breath before, mostly in competition with his siblings. He’d even won a couple of times, mostly against Jean, whose face turned red as she pouted at him for beating her. Then, he’d managed to hold his breath for only a minute. The seconds passed by in his head, _fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two . . ._

His vision blurred. How long could someone go without air? He didn’t know. He’d have to go up before he passed out, but he didn’t know how long that would take. _Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five . . ._

His lungs screamed at him, _burning_ , demanding to be filled as they pounded against the inside of his chest. His hands started to lose their grip on the pool walls before he forced them back. He was shaking, he realized belatedly, shivering in warm water. _One-eighteen, one-nineteen, one-twenty . . ._

He had never held his breath for this long. His legs kicked instinctively, even as he held his head and chest still. Something _popped_ in his ears.

 _I should go up_ , he thought, nearing three minutes. He didn’t know how long he had before passing out, but it couldn’t be much longer.

He didn’t stop.

His mouth fell open, allowing a rush of water in. He tried to spit it out, but there were dots across his vision and the room was slowly turning black as he his mouth opened and he felt his eyes slide shut—

Jakob sputtered, gasping and choking as he was suddenly wrenched up and out of the pool, dropped unceremoniously on the surrounding floor. He coughed, spitting out water as he struggled onto his hands and knees. The pool, which had a moment ago come to life with his thrashing, quickly regained its calm. He shivered. His pupils were blown, his eyes very big and very blue.

Jean stared at him from the doorway, sky-like eyes wide as she stared at him. She ran over a moment later, ignoring the water-slick floor as she went to her knees beside him, one hand on his chest and the other on his back, checking his breaths. “ _Mein Gott_ , Jakob, are you hurt?! Are you okay?!”

Jakob breathed roughly, holding a hand up and looking at it. He tried to grab at that small thing at the core of him, to call forward some power or sense or affinity. Nothing happened. “No. I’m not.”

* * *

Jean wrapped a towel around her brother’s arms, leading him forward. He let her, too dejected to do anything else. They drew more than a few curious glances on their way home, but Jean deftly turned their attention away, glad that she’d been practicing. It was not a long walk. By the time they got there, Erik and Charles were in the living room, the telepath speaking to his husband in low, harsh tones. Both stilled when the door opened, looking up at them. Jakob’s heart sank ass he realized Jean must already have told them what happened telepathically. _So much for that._

Erik stared at Jakob, but spoke to Jean. “Upstairs. Now. We have to speak with your brother alone.”

Jean shifted from side to side, one hand wrapped around Jakob’s wrist. “I don’t think—”

“ _Now, Jean_ ,” Erik said, uncharacteristically harsh. “This is _not_ up for discussion.”

Jean looked to Charles. He shook his head. “Go.”

Jean cast her twin one last look, silently mouthing “I tried” before running upstairs. Jakob, still shivering, sat down on a cushioned chair, eyes trained on the floor.

Both men stared at him, but Charles spoke first. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Jakob flinched before hiding it with a shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You _don’t know_?” Charles let out a shocked laugh. “Do you hear that, Erik? He _doesn’t know_. Do you believe that?”

“Obviously not,” Erik said, still looking at their son. “Do you have _any idea_ how much you scared us? Or _Jean?”_ His voice grew harsher, slipping into his mother tongue. “Your sister thought you were _dying_ —”

“What does it matter?” Jakob demanded, looking up for the first time since he’d come in. “I’m _fine_ , aren’t I?”

“Are you?” Charles demanded. “Because it doesn’t _bloody seem like it._ ”

Jakob returned his gaze to the floor, his shoulders painfully hunched, a perched and stony gargoyle. “I didn’t want to _hurt myself_. Not like that.”

“Then _what_ _were you trying to do_ —”

Against his own will, Jakob’s memories came pouring forth. Beast and the test results. Remembered biology and genetics classes where they talked about pain and trauma activating mutations. The water, going from warm and bright to cold and painfully dark as the world lost color. The sheer sense of disappointment and self-disgust when even that didn’t work.

Charles rocked on his heels, closing his eyes and pressing his palms to them. “Go get dressed. I’m taking you out of school for the next two weeks to focus on your health. As soon as I can, I’ll make an appointment for you with one of the Academy’s therapists.” He paused before adding, “And Erik is going to take the lock off your door.”

“ _Dad_ —”

“THIS IS NOT A DISCUSSION,” Charles shouted, surprising even himself. “Be glad you still _have_ a door since we _clearly_ can’t trust you to stay on your own. Now _go upstairs and get dressed._ And come back down as soon as you’re done, I don’t want you alone for the rest of the day.”

Jakob stared at them both, trembling, before nodding once and doing as he was told. It hurt to see. Jakob usually refused to cede an inch no matter how silly or unimportant the topic. But now he just walked upstairs without looking at either of them, defeated and aware of it.

As soon as he was gone, Charles dropped loose-limbed onto a couch, covering his face. “ _God_ , Erik, what have we done?”

Erik sat behind him, drawing Charles against his chest and tucking the other man’s head under his chin. “I know.” There was nothing else to say, no explanation for their failure or inability to fix it. “I know.”

* * *

Standing half-dressed in his room, the defeat gone from his pale face, Jakob twisted a ring around his finger and stared into a mirror at his deep-blue eyes, steeling himself for what he knew he had to do.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-harm, discussion of self-harm, drowning, suffocation
> 
> Mein Gott = My God (German)


	22. Adamantium-Enhanced Skeletal System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakob makes a plan and acts on it.

There was an unexpected benefit to having people be so jumpy about leaving him on his own. Jakob was given an opportunity to shadow his _Vater_ as he went about his duties, meeting with Generals and team Captains, designing new and better training simulations, and reviewing policy updates sent to him by the Council. He was actually kind of annoyed with himself for having a good time when he was being punished, though thankfully no one else seemed to realize that was what Charles and Erik were doing. Instead, they saw it as the Imperator showing his favorite son the ropes ( _The irony_ ). Obviously Jakob couldn’t strengthen his powers alongside the rest of them, but he joined in no-powers sparring and target practice at a shooting range (Erik despised human weapons, but he was also paranoid enough to believe that the humans would develop weapons that would disable their powers and that they would need other ways to counter them) (Jakob agreed). He wasn’t the best fighter ever, but he held his own against mutants in their twenties or thirties, and the exercise put a smile on his face.

But that wasn’t what he was obsessing over.

There was a soldier, someone who’d gone with Mystique and Azazel on a number of high-level missions despite being a new recruit, not to mention new to Genosha itself. Jakob, who vaguely remembered hearing about him and his past over dinner with his aunt a couple of times, asked Erik about it the first chance he got.

“How did Wolverine end up here?”

Erik cast him a look over the top of a paper he was reading. Apparently judging Jakob as being simply bored, he explained, “Mystique met him while liberating a group of mutant children from a facility where they were being experimented on. One of the children was his daughter. When they were rescued, he agreed with us that the best place for her was on Genosha.” Begrudgingly, Erik remembered, and with a great deal of colorful language that had impressed even his sister-in-law. “And his history makes him well-suited for our work.”

“History?”

“Military going back over a century, special forces, black ops missions with reports more blacked-out than not. He’s _useful_ , I’ll give him that.”

“Oh.” Jakob bounced his foot on the wooden floor. “I heard he was involved with something called . . . what was it?” He knew what it was called. “Weapon M or Y or something—”

“Weapon X,” Erik said distractedly. “Yes, they put the adamantium on his bones. He doesn’t talk about that, however, and it would be unwise to ask him about it.”

“Of course,” Jakob said quickly, ducking his head in the image of a repentant child. “I was just curious.”

“Your curiosity has gotten you in trouble before.”

Jakob bit his lip. “I know. I’ll try to be more careful in the future.” _Liar._ He wondered when he’d become so adept at keeping things from his family.

* * *

The good thing about Erik was how much he hated paperwork. He had a small army of assistants and underlings to handle such things for him, and he put them to use. Jakob was quick to volunteer himself when the opportunity presented itself, running around the base and the Institute searching for reports and forms and files. 

It gave him plenty of opportunity to find what he needed.

Hidden away in a set of drawers in the underground portion of the base was a plain burgundy file, labelled, _W————— X._

 _Now what could this be?_ Jakob smirked.

Tucking the file amongst his own books, Jakob walked home alongside Erik, carefully keeping all thoughts of what he was planning out of his head. Dinner was quick and solemn. Jakob shoveled food into his mouth, only speaking when spoken to, and handing out shrugs and one-word answers to any questions. Beside him, Jean twisted her fork around pasta, not looking up.

“You have an appointment with an empathic therapist next week,” Charles informed him. “I hope you’ll at least _try_ to make it go well.”

“I’ll cooperate,” Jakob promised, not thinking about the fact that he might not be on the island in a week. “I don’t want to disappoint you again.”

“It’s not about disappointing us,” Erik said quietly. “This is for _your_ sake.”

Jakob quickly nodded before returning to his plate. His parents sighed before doing the same.

* * *

Jakob spared a moment to be glad that his family was used to his bedroom light being on long into the night. He tucked the file into the one of his astronomy textbooks and set it on top of his knees as he read.

More than a few lines of the file had been blackened out, but enough remained for Jakob to figure out most of what he needed. Weapon X was a genetic research facility that turned subjects — some willing, some not — into powered beings. Using radiation and genetic modification on baseline humans ( _Bruce Banner_ ), enhancing mutant abilities ( _Wolverine_ ), and activating the powers of suppressed mutants. 

Like him.

There were supposed to be facilities across Canada and parts of the Northern U.S., but the ones they had locations for had been shut down or destroyed, often by Genosha. _Thanks, Papa._ But they’d apparently never found the one Wolverine escaped from. His memories were clouded and shaky, and the general vibe seemed to be that no one was too eager to ask him lest they end up with claws in their chest. He didn’t socialize, and spent his nights drinking until even his enhanced senses were all but blinded. Jakob sincerely doubted he could just go up to the guy and ask.

Luckily, he still had one card left up his sleeve.

* * *

Jean waved goodbye at her friend Kitty as she left the Academy, using telekinesis to keep her heavy bag from weighing down her shoulder. If she was fast and put her things away in her room before her dads got home, then neither Charles or Erik would notice that she had more books than usual. She’d snuck away from the Academy at lunch to grab some books she knew Jakob had been longing for from the University library. 

Hopefully it would be enough to convince him to actually _speak_ to her.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Jakob’s mind lingering in the house, and stilled when she walked inside and saw him sitting on the couch. He spoke first, standing up. “Hey, Jean.”

“Oh. Um . . .” She carefully set her bag next to her usual cushioned chair, nudging it away with her toe. “How are you doing?”

Jakob shoved his hands into the pockets of the long, open black shirt that was layered over his dark gray sweater. _(Why does he dress like it isn’t 27 degrees outside?)_ “I’m doing better. It’s been good, being out of the house, school. I’ll be happy to go back, though.”

“Soon, right?”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

They fell into silence again. Jean wondered if silence would become their _normal_ , replacing the laughter and hip bumps and squeezing hugs of childhood.

She was about to show him the books she’d gotten when Jakob spoke again. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Jean blinked in surprise, her face quickly transforming into a smile. “Sure. Yeah, anything. What do you need?”

He told her, quickly, about Wolverine, giving a highly abbreviated version of his past. Jean shivered. “It sounds like he’s been through a lot, but what does it have to do with you?”

“The thing is, we still don’t know where the Weapon X facility he came from is. He said they kidnapped him and knocked him out to take him there, and he just barely managed to escape one day and ran off into the wilderness, not coming out for weeks. If he knows where it is, he doesn’t remember it— at least, not consciously.”

Jean nodded, understanding. “You want me to see if it’s buried in his head somewhere. Repressed memories.”

“Can you?”

Jean tilted her head, considering it. “I’ve never gone that deep in someone else’s head before. Why do you even care—”

“Because no one else is going to do it.” He grabbed his sister’s wrist, giving her a deathly serious look. “There are people out there _kidnapping mutants_. Torturing our brothers and sisters, forcing them to do all sorts of things. If we have a chance to make things better, don’t you think we should?”

Jean bit her lip in indecision. There was a moment where Jakob saw his future teeter on the edge. Then his sister nodded, and he had to fight not to show his relief.

* * *

Jean took a long drink of water, feeling it stream swiftly down her throat as she took deep swallows. Jakob sat across from his twin on her bed, mirroring her position with crossed legs and hands on his knees. Jean put the glass on her nightstand and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. “Where is he?”

“I think he sleeps in the barracks.” It was late enough that Logan had likely drunk himself to sleep since his daughter Laura would be at the Academy dorm rooms, only staying with him on the weekends. “Try there.”

Jean nodded before reaching out the bounds of her telepathy like Charles had taught her to. She lightly touched on dozens of minds, most of them sleeping, others up reading or talking or sparring or eating. She passed from one to the other, searching for that specific signature she remembered. Jean had only seen Logan a few times, while he was talking to the X-Men after a mission, or on the few occasions when she visited Papa at work. But his mind was distinct — old and angry and laced with cracks, like a statue made of broken granite. She knew immediately when she found him.

“Got it,” Jean whispered. “He’s asleep.”

Asleep and dreaming. Trying to navigate his mind was as bad as climbing through a rocky canyon with no gear. Slippery, sharp, painful. Jean tried to bring forth the memories that lurked close to the surface in most people’s minds, and he resisted at every turn. She feared that if she slipped, she would fall through the crevices of his brain and never come out. _Death by a thousand cuts,_ that’s what this was. Wolverine’s mind was a wild animal lashing out at the intruder, leaving lacerations up and down her arms and face, stinging and deep and painful.

Jean didn’t even realize how hard she was breathing until she tried to speak. “I don’t— I don’t know if I can do this.” She winced, leaning her head forward into her lap. Her head pounded. It was very dark and very loud, and she didn’t even know _what_ was loud, but it was, bearing down on her eardrums. “Why does it hurt?” _How can anyone live like this?_ “I _can’t . . ._ I’m not strong enough for this—”

“You _are.”_ Jakob leaned forward, grabbing his sister’s hand and squeezing. “You’ve got this.”

She shook her head, and even that hurt. Everything was so _much_ . “I _can’t_.”

“You _can._ ” He took Jean’s other hand and urged her to raise her head, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m your anchor, okay? If you start to get lost, I’m still here, and I’ll pull you back. We’re in this together, yeah?”

Jean squeezed her eyes shut, letting her forehead rest against his before nodding. “Yeah. Together.”

Taking a deep breath and closing herself off from her bedroom, she sunk back into Logan’s mind. It still hurt — alcohol and sleep seemed to sharpen his edges rather than dull them — but this time, she could feel that there was a part of her still attached to the rest of the world, a drop of light in a sea of dull grey and steel blue. Where Jean was confusion and hesitation, Jakob was stubborn sureness, taking what he wanted with no apologies, and pulling his twin forward to do the same. He wasn’t there with her, but his influence was felt. 

She forged ahead. Wolverine’s mind was still an animal, snapping and biting at her, but Jean pulled back when it did, exuding calm and kindness. It took a long time — longer than she’d even been in his head the first time — but eventually it grew used to her presence, allowing her to dive deep enough to access the sharp abyss where what she needed lurked. Pulling at tangled thoughts and half-remembered ideas, Jean fell deeper and deeper into the crater of his mind as she looked for the nest of memories that Jakob needed.

Her eyes burst open. “I got it.”

* * *

Logan’s memories were half-forgotten and fuzzy. Jean collected dozens of them spread out over weeks and months and years to put together a rough idea of what they were looking for. A map was spread out over her knees, stolen from a geography classroom. Pen in hand, she drew a circle around an area about two miles in diameter. “It’s around here, I think. Right on the border of Canada and the States, in the middle of the woods. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think he ran down to New York from here. That’s where he first found people after escaping. He was there for a few years before moving on.”

Jakob nodded slowly, staring. _There. That’s where I have to go._ He tamped down on those thoughts, banishing them to a corner where Jean hopefully wouldn’t notice. “This is great. Exactly what I was looking for.” He folded the map up. “I’ll show it to Papa tomorrow. He probably won’t mention anything since it’s supposed to be secret, but I know he’ll be pleased.”

Too happy to hide it, Jakob reached forward and pulled his sister into a hug, squeezing a choked-off sound out of her as she slowly returned the embrace, smiling. “Glad I could help.” She broke away to take a step back, facing her brother. “Are we okay?”

Surprised, Jakob nodded. “Yeah, Jeanie. We’re okay.”

* * *

By that point, Jakob had memorized the week’s schedules for Erik and the mutant Special Ops teams, and he saw his opening, closer than he’d expected. Just two people would take an X-Wing to New York to meet another group coming back from a mission in Canada, where the larger group would have to sneak out, the northern country being particularly strict about Genoshans on their land.

It was almost too good to be true. 

It was the weekend. He told Charles and Erik that he’d be spending the day with Jean, then asked his sister to cover for him so he could escape to the library. From there, it was simple. Beast had shown him the X-Wing dozens of times by then, and when he headed down to the underground hangar, careful to avoid anyone seeing him, his ID card let him in. His mind cast about for the plans he’d seen. There was a small room space for storing gear and weapons, unlikely to be opened before the teams regrouped. Remembering what Beast had told him, Jakob pressed a series of panels along the underside of the Jet.

It opened.

Jakob slinked inside, hearing the soft rush of air as the door closed behind him. It was completely dark inside, and would be until he opened the floor up again. He was alone.

For the first time, he wondered if this was insane. When was the last time he’d even left Genosha? Years, surely. He and Jean had spent almost all of their lives on the island, only leaving for things like state visits, rare occasions when one or both of their fathers would have to go and wanted them near. He’d hated it every time. Not just the stiff diplomacy or fake politeness, but he hated being away from home. Other places seemed cold and dirty and lifeless in comparison to the paradise of Genosha, its beautiful rainforest and crystalline waters, the beaches he’d run around on as a child and the grassy plateau where he was raised. He was a Son of Genosha, and he bore the title with pride.

 _And,_ a quiet voice asked, _what if I don’t come back?_

 _Doesn’t matter now,_ he decided. He had a goal, he’d made a decision, and now there was nothing left but to do it.

Above him, he heard voices, quiet conversation and the sounds of people running checks on the ship. He sunk further against the metal, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be noticed.

He wasn’t.

Jakob felt it when the jet lifted up, slow at first, but quickly moving up and out. It would leave from the cliffs that opened over the Breakshore before speeding over the ocean. _No going back._ He folded his arms and lay back against a wall, settling in for the ride.   
  



	23. Tracking Abilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakob takes a step forward.

Jakob woke with a start when the X-Wing landed, the jet gently rocking before growing still. Above him, he could hear people talking, the clicks of metal as they ran through their checks and doors shifted, sliding open and closed. He waited, counting out five minutes until it was safe. It took him a moment to get at the panels in the dark, but he managed it. Half the floor opened underneath him, a landing ramp slowly lowering. He blinked at the light, only taking a few seconds to let his eyes adjust before he grabbed his pack and jumped out.

The jet was parked on the edge of a beach, a patch of natural fog preventing the small plane from being easily spotted. His leather combat boots sank into wet sand. Jakob pulled his coat closer. It was shockingly cold here, especially coming from Genosha, where it was early in the wet season. He was glad he’d thought to bring a pair of gloves, though they were better suited to gripping than keeping warm.

Jakob looked around, slinging a canvas bag with maps and emergency food and US cash (the latter snuck out from Charles and Erik’s room) as he did. Behind him was the ocean, and with it, his home. In front of him was danger and uncertainty and people who hated his own, the world that his fathers had left behind to give their people a new home.

In front of him was a _chance_.

There was nowhere to go but forward.

* * *

New York was loud.

And messy.

Jakob wondered if he’d ever seen a place so crammed full of people. It didn’t seem likely. No one gave him a second glance as he found his way to the streets, shoulders slightly hunched, black-and-grey clothes blending into the filthy grunge of the city. He found himself missing the vibrantly colored clothes of Genosha, the way that fabric fluttered in the wind as people ran along beaches and laughed when rain came pouring down yet again. Here, the population was separated into those who actually lived in the city, hoodies and jackets and coats providing as much protection as their sentinel-like demeanors, and gaping tourists. Jakob tried to blend in with the former.

On the bright side, he actually did enjoy a long walk. On the beaches, through the forest along the river, along the cliffs separating them from the Breakshore. Here, it was orange-lit sidewalks and sharp streets, but the principle was the same.

 _It’s going to be late soon_ , he realized, startled. The time zone difference, along with the hours needed to get to New York, meant that he’d essentially traveled back to the day before. It was dark, with a crescent moon in the sky, but no stars. _Too much light pollution._ A memory he’d half-forgotten found its way back to him, of him and Jean sneaking out at night to look up at the stars and make up constellations and stories to go along with them.

He pushed the memory away, feeling suddenly guilty about lying to his sister. He pushed _that_ away too. There would be time later to apologize and make amends. He couldn’t move forward if he was too busy looking back.

Jakob had drawn out a route on one of his maps, and he followed it perfectly now, only needing to check twice when he got turned around. After over an hour of walking, he found what he’d been looking for.

The _Copper Mirror_ was a perfectly unassuming bar buried in Greenwich Village that his brother had off-handedly mentioned going to during one of his unscheduled visits home. With dark-pink windows too opaque to see through, two things tucked into the glass corner drew his attention: a pair of flags, one with horizontal stripes of rainbow colors, and one divided into diagonal sections of black and white with a purple dot in the center. 

This place was safe for mutants.

Jakob opened the door and quietly made his way in, distantly glad to find that it was open. A spattering of people lingered around the room, some indistinguishable from the humans that littered the streets, some obviously mutant, like a man with porcupine-like quills in place of hair. He relaxed, glad to be once more surrounded by those he considered his kind, even if he wasn’t quite there yet.

He took a seat at the bar itself, trying to seem more casual than he was. The woman tending, her tightly-coiled hair bubblegum pink and cloud-like, gave him a look. “You need something?”

Jakob nodded. “I was wondering if someone here could help me with an address.” He figured the best people to ask were the mutants already in close proximity to the facility. If he just headed up there with nothing more precise than the open circle Jean had drawn for him, he’d be wandering for days on end until he was too lost or too dead to do anything but wait for the search party that his parents would organize when they inevitably realized he was gone.

If they hadn’t already.

The bartender arched a brow. “Looking for somewhere specific?”

He shrugged. “Kind of.” Not really sure how to explain, he pulled out his map and pointed at the circle.

She looked the map over, frowning for a moment before taking a step back, eyes wide. “Look, buddy, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you don’t want to fuck with those guys. So if you’re one of them, I suggest you get the hell out of my bar before I take you out—”

“No, I’m not—” How to explain? He was desperate — but then desperation was the mother of creativity, or something like that. He looked around as though checking that no one was listening, then leaned in closer. “Quicksilver’s been here a few times before, right? Pietro Maximoff?” The bartender reluctantly nodded. “I’m working with him, but he’s not exactly the most low-key person alive, so he sent me to ask around here. We’re looking into this place, but it’s hard to get close-up without making them scatter. We need a better location before we can, and we’re looking into any and every lead. If you know anything at all, it would be helpful.” He let his eyes widen a bit to underscore the seriousness, voice never wavering, eyes hard as steel. “ _Anything._ ”

Erik once told him that the way to get people to give you what you want was to make them believe that they _should_ , that it was your G-d given right to have it and they should do everything they can to help you. Jakob had turned this into an artform, and he knew it. 

The woman gave him a hard look, arms crossed in front of her chest. She checked that no one was paying them any attention before giving a single, sharp nod. “Gimme a minute.” She disappeared into a room behind the counter. Jakob stayed on his stool, bouncing his foot and waiting, impatient. She returned a few minutes later, tilting her head to gesture to the backroom. He slid down, folding the map up and quickly following.

Jakob looked around the room, trying not to stare as the bartender left and closed the door behind him. There was a man there, with a hoodie covering most of his face, not paying attention to them but rather smoking and drinking straight from an open bottle of whiskey, making a disgusted face every time he took a swig before doing the same thing a few seconds later. Jakob fought the urge to crinkle his noise. “Hi. I’m trying to find—”

“Yeah,” the guy said casually, nonplussed. His voice was surprising. Kind of . . . irreverent? Sarcastic? Jakob couldn’t tell if he was Canadian or American. “I heard what you want. Just gimme two minutes to finish this bottle, then you can go. After all, I’m just here as a _cameo-slash-plot device_ , so there’s no time to waste.”

Which was an incredibly confusing thing to say, but the man just downed his drink before waving Jakob over and taking the map from his hand. He looked at it and nodded before grabbing a pen from an old baked beans can in the center of the table, flattening the map over the table. He scaled Jean’s circle down to just a few x’s. “That’s basically where the facility is. Try not to die, kid.”

The guy wasn’t smiling, but Jakob did. “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

Charles yawned, blearily blinking his way into the morning. Erik was already awake, arms wrapped around his husband’s waist as he kissed the back of his neck. Charles chuckled. “Morning, darling.”

Erik somehow burrowed closer to him, eyes closed and half his face covered in pillow lines. He muttered something grumpily into Charles’s shoulder, not bothering to make sense. Charles wrestled out of his grasp, turning around so they were facing each other. He leaned forward to place a close-mouthed kiss to Erik’s cheek. “I’m going to check on Jakob, then we’ll all spend the day together, alright?”

Erik nodded before flopping back on the bed, arms spread out, blankets pulled down to his waist, exposing his bare chest. Charles smiled to see him, so much more open than he once was, even with him.

“He’s in his room,” Erik muttered, half-opening his eyes and looking up at the dark wood of their ceilings. “Has been all night. I can feel his rings and stuff in there.”

Charles nodded and pushed his blankets away, sliding down from the bed and pulling a midnight-blue robe on. He padded down the hall. All the bedrooms were on the second floor, and Jakob’s was at the end of the hallway. Charles knocked on the closed door. “Jakob?”

Silence.

Charles sighed. He’d hoped that Jakob was doing better, but apparently not. He hadn’t seen his son at all the day before. Jakob didn’t even come down for dinner, his mind so closed-off that Charles couldn’t even feel his presence in the house like he normally did. “I’m going to be back up here in about half an hour, and I expect you to be awake and dressed by then.”

Still no answer. Charles thought his mother was probably somewhere laughing that he’d raised such petty children. 

He headed downstairs, aware of Jean waking up above him as he started to pull out everything to get breakfast ready. Thinking distantly of baking something, he opened the oven to check if anything had been left in there— and immediately stopped. 

There was a plate in the oven, leftover from last night and wrapped in foil. Jean had put it together after her brother didn’t show for dinner, figuring that he would get up later and heat it up. Something he clearly hadn’t done. But even if Jakob _had_ gotten up and decided he wasn’t hungry, he wouldn’t just leave food out. Mess of any kind was a huge pet peeve of his, and the idea of leaving food out to attract bugs or rodents would have been enough to work him into a stress headache. 

_It might be nothing_ , Charles told himself. _He might have just been tired and not seen it. He might still be sleeping._ But, combined with everything else . . .

Charles ran back upstairs, hurriedly knocking on his son’s door. “Jakob? Are you awake?” Silence stretched out, mocking him. “Jakob!” Ignoring Jakob’s wish for privacy, he reached out for his mind with a grasping force that would knock down any barriers or shields. 

Nothing. 

Charles felt his blood turn cold. “Erik!” _ERIK, come out here,_ **_NOW!_ **

He heard a loud _thump_ as Erik processed Charles’s voice in his head. The telekinetic quickly ran out into the hall, hovering a pair of hunting knives that weren’t used for hunting behind him. “What’s happening?”

Charles’s didn’t answer. He turned back to the door, opening it without resistance now that the lock was gone. He pushed inside, Erik quickly following.

It was empty. The bed was made, with black sheets army-stiff and books put away. Charles grabbed Erik’s wrist, staring at the nightstand. Jakob’s metal rings and cuffs were there, neatly lined up, waiting for him to return. His Star of David pendant was on top of a genetics paper with a bookmark halfway through. 

Charles and Erik stared, frozen in place. Then Erik said, quietly, “Get the X-Men.”

* * *

The bus ride actually didn’t take as long as he thought it would. Jakob claimed a spot in the back and glared at anyone who tried to sit too close to him. He sat with his legs up and crossed, _The Art of War_ propped on his knees for some light reading as snow-dusted trees and grey skies passed by outside. 

When it was time for him to get off, the bus driver gave both him and the empty bus stop a long look, taking in the utter lack of buildings or civilization, before apparently deciding it wasn’t his problem. Jakob listened to it speed away, apparently not wanting to be there any more than anyone else.

Anyone except him. 

The x marks on his map seemed to suggest that the facility was buried in the woods, a mile or so off of the road. The ground was covered in a short layer of snow that his boots, good for a fight or navigating the rainforest, offered little protection against. His black sweater and long coat, more than warm enough for sitting inside and making people give him weird looks at home, was barely enough to keep him from freezing now. He shivered, holding his pack close to him. _Nowhere to go but forward_ , he reminded himself. Jakob checked the map once more and started walking.

He actually didn’t have to go very far.

Jakob made it about ten minutes into the woods before he was surrounded, twenty men with guns forming a circle around him. Jakob stared at them, blinked, and thought, _That was easy_ , before slowly getting on his knees and putting his hands behind his head.

* * *

The facility itself, he realized after they cuffed and blindfolded him, was underground. He couldn’t see, but he knew by the sudden warmth and lack of wind when they had stepped inside somewhere, and felt the lowering of an elevator. They marched him through several more hallways and rooms, Jakob trying to remember where they turned and when, before he was pushed into a chair, his blindfold removed. He blinked several times, adjusting to the sudden, frigid white light and taking in the new environment.

The room they’d brought him to was disappointingly plain, about two and a half to three meters on each side, with dull grey doors, a steel table bolted down in the middle, and a matching chair on either side, one of which was his. His handcuffs were connected to a ring in the center of the table. Across from him sat a man, unassuming in appearance, with hair that was half-silver and on the verge of thinning, round spectacles, and a military-neat beard. Jakob saw that the man couldn’t be any taller than himself, and was more squat, likely from age. His grey jacket was unadorned and his watch was military-issue. He was just kind of . . . plain.

Jakob knew immediately that this man was very dangerous. 

The man stared at him. Jakob stared back. Neither spoke for a long time, waiting for the other to make the first move.

They passed more than twenty minutes like that before the soldier spoke. “Let’s start simple. Who are you and why are you here?”

Jakob had to resist the urge to smirk at his short-lived victory. “I’m David. David Haller.” He made a show of looking around. “I’m assuming this is the Weapon X facility?”

The soldier (Jakob mentally nicknamed him _Shark-eyes_ ) didn’t answer him, which Jakob took as a _yes_. “If you’re a scout, you’re bad at it. Got caught awful quick.”

“Good thing I’m not a scout then.” His hands twitched. This would be the hard part before the actual hard part. “I heard that you can . . . turn people into mutants.”

Shark-eyes didn’t _react_ exactly, but Jakob could swear that there was a glint of amusement in his dead, dark eyes. “And why would you want that?”

Jakob had thought up half a dozen different stories and excuses, rehearsing them for hours in his head, but it occurred to him, looking at that man with eyes like pits, that he didn’t need to. This man wanted to kill mutants, and he took joy in using other mutants to do so. “Everyone has a story. Does mine matter?”

Shark-eyes smiled at him. 

* * *

There were more levels to the facility. Jakob, adjusting the thin white shirt and trousers, distantly wondered how long it had taken to excavate the earth needed for so much space. 

The elevator opened to a room not unlike a warehouse floor. It was littered with dozens of tanks made out of some type of white synthetic material, each with a glass casing on top, like pods in an old sci-fi movie. The glass was clean and clear, and Jakob could see into each of them when he looked. Men, women, and others, strapped down as black water or poisonous gas filled their cases, suffocating them to the point of oblivion. They screamed in pain when volts of electricity coursed through their bodies. Others didn’t have anything _physically_ happening to them, but still writhed and twisted at some invisible pain or horror. A lucky few were unconscious, but wouldn’t stay that way for long. 

Jakob’s throat tightened, but he kept moving, walking down the aisle past dozens of victims. Shark-eyes gave him a look that wasn’t _quite_ impressed. “This is the point where most people try to run away. But you don’t back down from much, do you?”

Jakob half-shrugged. “Guess it’s not how I was raised.”

Shark-eyes made a chuffed sound that was almost a laugh. Jakob didn’t bother to look at him, staring down at an empty tank. “I assume this is mine?”

The glass front opened. Jakob levered himself on the steel edge, pushing up and jumping in. He straightened his legs and lied down, head back. Automatic straps came up to hold down his elbows, wrists, stomach, knees, and ankles. He twisted to test them. They were tight, restricting his movement. It would be difficult to get out. 

If he ever did.

Shark-eyes took a step back as another man glided over, tall and skinny and mutant. Jakob stared as the new mutant attached electrodes to his arms and head, inserting thin needles to the inside of his elbow. The glass closed, and Shark-eye tapped it. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Mr. Haller. The human species is grateful.” 

Then the air was sucked out of the tank, and Jakob didn’t have the breath to scream.  
  



	24. Superhuman Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean tells her fathers what she did.  
> Jakob teeters on the edge of despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: torture (physical and psychological)

Charles and Erik stood at the head of the table in the ready room at the X-Men’s HQ, the doors closed and sealed, the walls sound-proofed. The X-Men Senior Captains stood around the table, along with several of their most trusted generals and friends, heads down in silence. 

Charles spoke first. “Is he on the island?” 

Mystique shook her head. “We’ve looked everywhere. Telepaths, trackers, psychics. He’s not here.”

Charles nodded as though this were expected. “I tried Cerebro. Wherever he is, I can’t reach him.”

Everyone glanced at each other. “Charles,” Hank began, “if you can’t sense his mind . . . don’t you think it’s possible that Jakob is . . . that he might be . . .”

“ _No_ ,” Charles said shortly. “That’s not possible. My son doesn’t give in, God help me. Wherever he is, he’s alive — and likely making someone else’s day a great deal worse for it. We’ll keep looking until we find him, and won’t stop a moment sooner.”

Tapping the glass screen of the table, Erik pulled up a list of every ship or plane that had left the day before. “Start here. Call them back, search every vehicle that left Genosha between the last time Jakob was seen and when he was discovered missing. Bring in anyone who might have seen him or who’s spoken to him recently for questioning. Right now, we’re working on the assumption that Jakob left on his own, but we can’t rule out that he might have been kidnapped and that this was an act committed against Genosha itself. If no one knows anything, we’ll send instructions to our teams and allies around the world to start searching for him.” He looked around. “Where’s Phoebe? Someone send for her, immediately. If anyone has an idea what’s happened to Jakob, it’s—”

Someone knocked.

Everyone’s eyes turned to the door. Charles put a hand to his temple before relaxing. “It’s Jean and Phoebe. Azazel, let them in.”

Azazel did so, opening the door as the two women came in. Phoebe, her dark hair falling past brown shoulders like a waterfall, held an arm around Jean, comforting the crying teen. Jean was a mess, her eyes wet and red, hair tangled and unbrushed. She looked at them with such guilt that Charles was frozen on the spot. “Jean?” he said quietly. “What’s wrong, dearest?”

Phoebe squeezed Jean’s shoulders, nudging her forward. The young woman looked at the ground before facing her parents. “I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Jeanie,” Erik said softly, holding his hands slightly out to the side. 

Jean ran into his arms, wrapping her arms around his waist and breaking down into sobs, crying into her _Vaters_ chest. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know what he was going to do!”

Charles and Erik shared a look. Charles set a light hand on Jean’s face and turned her chin up so she was facing them. “We’re not upset with you, Jean. We just want to know where Jakob is, alright? Do you know anything?”

Jean nodded, choking back painful cries so she could speak. “He heard about something called _Weapon X_. From one of Papa’s files or something, I think. He wanted to know where the place that Wolverine was held was. I—” 

Her face turned red and splotchy with shame. She almost seemed to be throwing out random, unconnected thoughts to the others, but Charles and Erik knew what she was talking about, and the blood drained from their faces as understanding dawned on them. “Dad, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but . . . I looked in his mind. I didn’t even know if I could do it, but it worked and I did, and I told him. I thought he was just going to tell Papa, but then he didn’t come home when he said he would, and I woke up and he was still gone and everyone was panicking looking for him . . .”

As Jean rambled, she dissolved into crying again, covering her mouth with a hand. Erik, sick with fear but still worried for his daughter, he pulled her into a tighter hug, running his fingers through Jean’s loose red hair and tucking her head under his chin. Speaking in hushed German whispers, he told her, “It’s not your fault, _Schatz_. We’re going to find Jakob and bring him back, alright? I promise.” 

They waited several minutes for Jean to calm down. Then Erik took a step back and gave her a deathly serious look. “Now, tell us _exactly_ where Jakob went.”

* * *

It occurred to Jakob, sometime after the fifth hour, that he hadn’t really understood what pain was.

Oh, he’d had _injuries_ before. He broke his arm once falling from a tree when it turned out that Pietro was not actually strong enough to catch him and stay standing. When he was six he had to have his tonsils removed due to an infection, and afterward he'd clung to Charles’s shirt for hours like a baby koala to its mother. Bruises of all sizes were common from sparring practice, and he had a number of small scars from running around and accidentally slamming his rings or pendant into his flesh when he fell or hit something. But pain was not something to be _endured_ on Genosha. If he was hurt, Charles would brush a hand over his hair and gently lift the pain away. Injured, and Elixir or another healer would fix it in a matter of moments. This — sustained pain over hours, helpless and friendless and hopeless — was new. 

And it was _hell._

Jakob screamed. Erik always said there was no shame in screaming when an enemy had you at their mercy and took advantage of it, and Jakob put the advice to use. He screamed until his throat was torn and he spit up blood, clawing at the plastic bed until his fingers were numb and raw. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t, staring up at the granite-grey ceiling until it was ugly and distorted. Every muscle in his body was tight and tense, shrieking, crying, begging for the pain to stop. 

The _variety_ of tortute methods was inventive, at least. He was electrocuted, drowned, and suffocated until he was weak and his vision blurred. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood and sweat, staining the stark-white clothes he’d been given, turning his skin into a salty mess. He screamed for Charles and Erik, for Pietro and Wanda, and most of all for Jean. Not even for help, but only to see their faces and know that they hadn’t left him behind. 

He should have known that he’d get his wish.

A soft hissing sound filled the tank, filtering air back in after a bout of oxygen deprivation. He sucked it in, not even caring that it was steely and recycled, not fresh and awash with memories of the ocean. His eyes finally shut, dry and exhausted and out of tears. He wondered for a few hateful moments if he’d been granted a reprieve. 

Then the drugs filtered in, and he was lost again.

He tried to resist. Dad would be proud. He threw everything he’d ever learned about shielding his mind into a new mission, raised walls and towers and fortresses, barriers thay any psychic would have had to work at to tear down—

But a mind can not defend against itself. 

Jakob succumbed with a weakness that terrified himself. In his head, memories taunted him. Half-formed images of Jean, her red hair made of fire. When she looked at him, her eyes melted from her face. Jakob screamed, tried to run to her, but there was a wall made of thin glass between them. 

_No, not glass._ It was ice, and when he ran into it, his hands were frozen to the surface, forced to stand still as cold shot through his heart. He watched, vocal cords cut as Jean burned up in front of him, never losing her kind-hearted smile. 

Erik stared at him, appearing out of nowhere, standing in the ashes of what had been his daughter. His face shifted from anger to disgust to hatred in waves. _“You disappoint me,”_ he said in rough, clipped German. _“First you get your sister killed, and now you don’t even have the shame to die with her properly.”_

Jakob tried to shake his head. _“No, I didn’t. I didn’t hurt Jean, I wouldn’t. Papa, I didn’t want any of this to happen—”_

 _“Since when do we get what we want? I wanted a mutant son to carry on my legacy, to become Imperator when I was gone and to protect our people. I wanted to leave Genosha in your hands. I thought you would lead them alongside Jean, carry us to safety and glory. Instead you’re one of_ **_them_** _.”_ His pale grey eyes were filled with such disgust that Jakob wished he could recoil. _“Well, there’s still Pietro, I suppose. Although he and Wanda are Avengers now, barely mutants at all. Still. Better than you, at least.”_ He looked down at the ashes, drawing the heel of his shoe around in a circle, dirtying it. _“Since you killed your sister.”_

Someone touched his shoulder, turning him around. Jakob choked on a sob as his dad cried, his tears leading into the Genoshan River rivers, filling and overwhelming it. Charles’s feet were bare, soles bleeding from the thorns that lay along the forest ground, mixing blood with pale ash. Red and white, forming a disgusting paste on his soft skin. Charles looked at him with eyes that mirrored Jakob’s, large and round and as intensely blue as the Indian Ocean on a sunny day. _“Why did you leave us, Jakob? I never wanted you to go.”_

 _I’m not gone,_ Jakob thought wildly. He tried to shout. _“Dad, I’m not gone!”_ But his throat was tight and his lungs couldn’t take in air. 

_“I’m alone now,”_ Charles said, not looking at him, but at the green trees and vibrant grass, the red-and-white birds that fell dead from the sky. _“It’s all ending. Everything we built, everyone I loved. They’ve taken it all from us, and now they’ve taken you. I thought . . . even if I lost everything else. Genosha. The Academy. The X-Men. Pietro and Wanda. Erik. I thought I’d still have you and Jean.”_ His eyes were distant and glassy as fire spread through the forest, turning the trees into shimmering wisps of red-and-gold fire and smoke and sparks. The river boiled and evaporated. Charles’s tears dried, leaving trails of salt under his dead eyes. _“But I don’t.”_

Jakob screamed, frozen in place, as the fire overtook Charles, starting at his feet and winding around his body until he was burnt bones and ash. 

Jakob couldn’t move when the fire came for him. He didn’t try to. _Pain is temporary_ , Papa used to say to new recruits or before an important mission. _Focus on the goal._ But this pain wasn’t temporary, and the goal was nowhere in sight. He rasped out, _“I’m sorry,_ ” apologizing at once for everything he’d done and everything he couldn’t be. _“I’m so sorry.”_

Then the pain took him, and he was lost.

* * *

“Do you want to call the Avengers?” Hank asked as they prepared the X-Wing. “We’re off the ground in less than ten minutes. If we want help, we have to do it now.”

Charles blinked a few times, trying to think rationally. It would probably be smart to have help, but it was a mission on Canadian land. They kept quiet about a lot of the X-Men’s activities for a reason. If they told the Avengers about a military mission on the American-Canadian border, they’d want to take it over to employ their diplomatic immunity and head off any negative attention on the mutants. But that would take time, and meetings, and calls, and bureaucracy, and not listening to the Genoshans’ input like they should. 

It would keep them from focusing on Jakob. 

It was logical to call the Avengers. Charles didn’t want logical. He wanted to find his son even if it meant burning the world down and digging him out of the ashes. 

“Don’t,” he told Hank. “There’s no time to waste, just get everyone on the plane and let’s go.” He turned away from him, running both hands down his face. “If I have to spend another goddamn second waiting here while my son is somewhere being _tortured . . ._ ” His voice broke. His eyes closed. “Five minutes. Not ten. If anyone wastes time, just have Azazel bring them to the plane.”

Hank nodded and ducked out of the room, passing by Erik as he was coming in. The two exchanged a glance before Erik saw his husband. Charles was still turned away, but heard the door shut and knew immediately when Erik walked up behind him, quiet as a ghost. His breathing mellowed out, and he stood, waiting, until Erik rested his hands on the other man’s shoulders, gently kissing his neck and putting his forehead to the back of his neck. Unlike him, Erik wasn't panicking. A cold sense of determination had taken over him, and now all he was thinking of was his goal. There was only him, what he wanted, and how he planned to get it. And what he wanted was to save his son.

Charles sank into the cold simplicity of Erik's thoughts the same way he sank into the warmth of his arms. He was shocked when Erik spoke. “Do you think you can do this?”

Charles rolled his head, leaning into Erik’s body. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Jakob needs us. Our lives haven't been our own since the second we stepped onto this island. Now's no different, the stakes are just more personal.”

“Do you regret it?”

Charles immediately shook his head. “No. I love them all too much.” Before the children, he hadn’t realized he could love someone more than he loved Erik. Then he held Jean and Jakob in his arms, and realized he could care about someone enough to kill for them. “It’d be nice, though. To go to sleep without worrying.” Having children hadn't made him less idealistic, but perhaps less optimistic.

“Hm. Seems unlikely.”

Charles chuckled. “Doesn’t it?” 

_Three minutes._ They had to get moving. 

Charles stared at the door, unmoving. “After Jean, I thought . . . surely Jakob too. Surely it would all be alright in the end. He was still a child, but I knew anything else would just destroy him.”

“Do you regret what we did?” Erik asked softly.

“Often,” Charles answered mechanically. “But there was nothing else to do at the time.” 

“Do you still believe that?”

“No. But I don’t know what I’d do if it happened again.”

 _One minute._ Time to go.

Erik wrapped his arms around Charles’s in one last hug before letting go. “Let’s hope it never does.” He squeezed Charles’s hand and pulled him to the door. “Now let’s go get our son.”  
  



	25. Psychic Willpower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The X-Men go on a mission to rescue Jakob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of death and violence; creepy man being creepy towards a teenage girl; and a villainous character refers to a Jewish character as a "rat"

The Blackbird flew smoothly, crossing over from the Atlantic Ocean to the New York-Canada border, shields activating to prevent detection and cloaking tech blending them into the grey sky. Charles and Erik sat in the front with the X-Men Senior Captains, Beast and Mystique, Havok and Banshee, and Angel and Azazel. None of them spoke as they approached the area that Jean had singled out and their sensors activated, searching for the facility they knew lurked beneath the snow-topped trees.

Beast flipped a series of switches, allowing them to hover in mid-air. “Last check before we go down. We don’t know what all they have in there, so it’s a possibility that they can detect us despite our deflectors. We should move quickly.”

“I wasn’t planning to waste time,” Erik said forebodingly as he stood, pulling on a pair of thick leather gloves to go with his dark, red-purple battlesuit. 

Charles stayed sitting for a moment, one hand pressed to the side of his head as he struggled to sense the minds he knew should be down there. He sighed in frustration. “I can’t feel anything.”

“They must have something to block telepaths,” Beast theorized. “No wonder it’s taken us so long to find this place.”

“It will take us far less time to tear it down,” Erik promised, heading to the back of the jet and opening the bomb bay doors in the middle of the metal floor. “Don’t hesitate to free any mutants that don’t appear to be under the humans’ control, but _remember_ , your mission is to find Jakob—”

A clamor sounded through the ship, followed by muffled cursing. Everyone stared at the small hatch used to hold spare equipment and weapons, first aid kits and spare suits. 

Banshee spoke first. “Does that sound like—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Erik growled, ripping the hatch open. Jean fell forward onto the floor, her hands flailing over the open air. She wore a spare black-and-silver X-Men suit, her long hair braided into a crown. Pale eyes looked up at her _Vater_ guiltily. “. . . Hallo, Papa. How, um, how are you doing?”

Charles sighed in exasperation. “Hank, did you show _everyone_ the jet plans?”

Hank sputtered out a defense as Erik pulled Jean up by the metal linings of the suit. His daughter squirmed under his gaze, but didn’t back down. “I couldn’t stay behind while you guys went to save Jakob. You’re not the only ones with powers—”

“This is not a _game_ , Jean,” Charles said suddenly, harshly, surprising everyone, but most of all Jean. “And you are _not_ a soldier. You are not a member of the X-Men. You are a _child_. _My_ child. And you’re going home, _now_. We’ll have to spare Azazel—”

“Actually, Professor,” Beast interrupted. “We can’t. You know how I mentioned that they might notice we’re here?”

Below them, Charles could feel a sudden influx of minds, people rushing out of the iron coffin into the surrounding woods. He looked into Erik’s head, feeling the metal guns and tags they carried. There were a lot — more than they’d expected. They would need everyone they’d brought (and probably a good deal more), but especially the teleporter. A trip to Genosha and back would leave Azazel tired. Not out of commission, but not as strong as he needed to be in a fight like this. And if they left now, then the facility would either be abandoned or fortified in short order — and Jakob would be lost.

Charles bit down on the inside of his cheek in frustration, closing his eyes. He mentally sorted through all of the X-Men that had come with them before speaking. “ _Hank_ , stay here and watch my daughter. We might call you for back up if we absolutely have to. If it comes to it, leave with Jean. That’s an order.”

Hank nodded, his yellow eyes showing that he understood the seriousness of the Professor’s command. Jean tried to argue again. “But Dad—”

“Jean, I swear to _God_ , if you try to argue with me, you will be lucky to ever leave your _room_ again, never mind Genosha. _Stay here._ ”

Jean stared at him, eyes pale like Erik’s but blue like his, and righteously defiant. Her face had the same softness and round curves as Charles’s, but there was something of Erik’s edge in her nose and jaw, though not as harsh. Charles wondered, dimly, when that had happened, when his children had grown up and started doing things like running off on their own, chasing things he couldn’t give them. When did Jean start to regain the fire in her eyes that had been there as a child? The suit she wore didn’t fit perfectly, but she held herself as well as any X-Man.

It didn’t matter now. Nothing would matter if they didn’t return to Genosha with both Jean and Jakob alive. Jean’s mind was closed-off to him, but he relaxed slightly when she finally nodded her agreement. Charles gave Hank a sharp look. “Watch her.” 

Jean sat with her arms crossed as the jet quickly lowered, enough so that they could all exit without relying on Azazel. The two Genoshan leaders pointedly ignored her as they touched down, Charles taking his husband's offered hand as his boots came to rest on crunching snow. He took in a deep breath, trying to remember the last time he'd been in New York. Probably while they were setting up the Genoshan Embassy. They'd visited the mansion a few times, turning it into a school for mutants who couldn't or wouldn't come to the island, but not recently. His breath froze in the air, forming small white clouds. Charles shivered. _To think this place is so foreign to me now . . ._

Charles put those thoughts away when he felt a dozen approaching human minds. Never changing expression, he raised a hand to his temple, flexed his hold, and felt them all collapse to the frozen ground. 

Charles, looking forward, reached out for Erik’s hand and squeezed once. Erik squeezed back.

They went to save their son.

* * *

Jean considered obeying her parents for all of two minutes before following. 

Hank, to her relief, was easy to control. She gently edged him into talking about his latest research article on the effects of mutants having children with humans on their offspring’s mutations, leaving behind an illusion of herself listening attentively and occasionally nodding in interest. The Blackbird had returned to the air after lowering for the others, so she opened the bay doors again, slipping out and levitating herself to snow-and-body laden ground. 

Jean went to her knees beside the first human security guard she saw, tilting his head back and checking his pulse. He was alive, though unconscious, his mind a blank black space of half-memories and faded dreams. He was in such a deep sleep that she wouldn't be surprised if he fell into a coma.

Jean stood again and followed the trail of bodies to the small iron shack that served as an elevator, stretching out her telekinetic sense to feel the tiered building underground. She wavered in her resolve when she realized she couldn’t feel anyone else, her mind alone except for Hank. 

But then she thought, _Jakob is down there._ Her brother wouldn’t be scared. Even if he should have been, he wouldn’t be. If it was her being held, he wouldn’t hesitate to jump in. She was tired of being scared and anxious and _waiting_. 

It was time to fight. 

Jean steeled her spine before forcing the elevator to rise. 

It was almost funny, actually. Staring silently at the blank white walls, blood thrumming with adrenaline and fear and determination as imagined elevator music played in her head. She hummed along to an ABBA song that Pietro loved, then froze when the door opened. 

Inside, it was a bloodbath. Humans in tactical gear lay unconscious on the floor like their compatriots outside, stunned and unmoving. Others, wearing collars or helmets to keep the telepaths out, stood off against the mutants with guns, some metal, far fewer of plastic. Some of them were mutants, pupils tiny pinpricks in the vast whiteness of their eyes, movements almost robotic as they fought the people attempting to rescue them. A telekinetic wrestled for control of a metal beam with Erik at the same time as Charles struggled against a psychic attempting to keep him out of their heads. Mystique, blue and red and striking, twisted around a man covered head to toe in black gear, using a sudden show of force to throw him forward with her legs. The human disappeared when Azazel grabbed him in midair and teleported to an overhead catwalk, dropping him upside down onto the concrete twenty feet below, breaking his neck and killing him instantly. A mind-controlled mutant wrapped prehensile hair around Angel’s waist and didn’t react except to fall to the ground when she responded by spitting acid straight through their throat, dissolving layers of skin and muscle. A similar scene happened only a few meters away as Havok used the plasma blasts emanating from his chest to mow down four people in a row, catching their clothes on fire and sending the smell of charred flesh into the air.

Jean stared in shock at the chaos, her stomach turning painfully as she forced herself to move. She stuck close to the walls as she ran, telepathically shielding her presence from the X-Men and hurriedly levitating away anyone who got too close to her. Her heart beat loud in her ears. Never looking away from the fight, she stretched the bounds of her telepathy, relieved to note that she could feel everyone else again as she sought out Jakob’s distinctive mind. She relaxed infinitesimally when she saw that he was close. Her brother flinched away when she found him, his mind made up of raw and flayed nerves, but it was _him_. _Jakob?_

_. . . Jeanie?_

* * *

Jakob was ripped out of unconsciousness by the sound of alarms blaring sirens and bright yellow lights flashing through the warehouse-like space. His tank was empty, only clean air filling his lungs, though his vision still blurred as the effects of the drugs lingered in his head. He blinked at the sound of someone calling out to him in the distance, vaguely recognizing his sister’s voice. He tried to speak, but his throat was torn up, and he coughed up blood into his mouth. He tried again, this time loosely grasping at the feeble connection in the back of his mind. _Jeanie?_

Relief that wasn’t his own overwhelmed him. _Jakob, we’re here! Where are you?_

 _I’m not sure,_ he thought, wondering if he was just speaking to himself or if they’d actually come for him. Tears wet his cheeks. _Fifth or sixth floor down, maybe. I’m in a tank. I’m tired, Jeanie. Are you sure you’re here?_

_Yes. Yes, I swear, I’m coming right now._

Jean’s mind was very warm and soothing, reminding him of Dad or maybe even Genosha itself. He figured that meant she was actually there. His mind wasn’t like that at all. _I’m glad you’re here, Jean. I don’t want to be alone._

 _I’m on my way now,_ she assured him, sending over the image of an elevator he recognized and the painful feeling of waiting when you wanted nothing more than to leap into action. _Dad and Papa are here too. We’re not leaving you, Jakob—_

The door opened and Jean froze.

Jakob turned his head, unable to see anything but the glass and stark-white casing that surrounded him. _Jean?_

She didn’t respond. 

_Jean, what’s happening?_

When they came through, Jean’s thoughts were pained and sluggish, moving like a thick, viscous liquid dripping into a jar— 

_There was a man, and his hold on her head was like a python strangling a wild horse to death. He smiled, and it made her skin crawl with the urge to turn away and protect herself from his gaze. His hair was the color of wheat and his mind, when she touched it, was toxic and sharp and dripping poison. His eyes were yellow. Jean tried to pull back, but he didn’t let her. She couldn’t move, physically or mentally. His name imprinted itself on her mind like a brand: Wyngarde._

_Mastermind._

Mastermind smiled, standing between Jean and the room her brother was trapped in. She struggled against his hold, but nothing happened. He smiled wider. “You know, I _thought_ the skinny rat that stumbled on us was one of the Genoshan brats, but I didn’t think the Professor was stupid enough to land another in our laps.” He reached out suddenly, grabbing her jaw and wrenching her forward. Jean stumbled forward like a marionette with its strings pulled. Her pupils were needle-small. He squeezed her cheeks. 

Mastermind cast a casual glance above them. They could still hear the fighting all the way down there, intermittent explosions and painful thuds. He smirked. “Don’t think it’s going too well for your side. It’d be funny if they all died and we got to keep you two, wouldn’t it?”

Jean struggled internally against his hold, like a child bashing against steel walls until their hands were bloody. Still nothing. 

Mastermind laughed. “Poor little bird, trapped in a cage. No flying away from this.”

Both twins thrashed in their bonds, Jean mentally, Jakob physically. Panicked, he tried to pull himself from the straps holding him down before he stilled, a plan forming in his head. He wasn’t sure if the mind-controller could hear him, but he thought to Jean, _Keep him distracted for a minute, alright?_

Jean, still scraping at her mental bindings, thought back in a tone that sounded like gritting her teeth, _It’s not like I have much else to do._

Jakob focused on the glass above him, one thought running through his head. _Jean is in danger._ He was strapped to the bed at the stomach, wrists, and elbows, but could still move his chest and neck enough to get his head up. _I put Jean in danger._ Jakob tested how much he could move, lifting his head and neck. _I can’t let Jean die here._ It was a strain, but he could do it. _I_ **_won’t_ ** _let Jean die here._

Gathering his strength and pulling back as much as he could, Jakob shot up and struck the glass with his forehead.

He grit his teeth against the pained shout that threatened to rise out of him. Thankfully, his throat was torn up enough that he couldn’t make much noise if he wanted to. He looked up, eyes blurring. There was a thin break in the glass. It was enough. He struck again, closing his eyes to keep tiny slivers of glass from falling into them, shaking his head. There was a cut on his forehead. Blood leaked into his brow. 

Jakob twisted a hand. If he could just get enough glass to cut the bindings on one of his wrists . . .

On the other side of the room, tears streamed down Jean’s porcelain face as she raged inside her own head. She couldn’t feel Charles or Erik like this. She was completely alone, forced to rely on herself and failing. Her fearful anger felt like a fire burning her alive from the inside, trying to drive her outside of her skin. 

Mastermind stood so close that his chest pressed into her arm and shoulder. Jean tried to squirm, and didn’t budge an inch. The mind-controller laughed at her. 

“Sweetheart, you’re not strong enough to get out of here on your own.”

Jean’s heart pounded harder than a drum. She wondered if he could hear it. 

“Your family is gonna die here. You’re gonna _wish_ you died here.”

Flames licked the inside of her skull, pushing her forward. She didn’t stop fighting for an instant, throwing everything she had at him. In the back of her mind, she kept repeating something Papa had said to her once, reciting it over and over like a mantra. _“When I was young, I was afraid. But I did not let my fear control me. Instead, I took it and I turned it into anger.”_

“You seem more useful than your brother. Maybe I’ll break him in front of you, just to see how hard you fight . . .”

_“And I turned my anger into power.”_

Tears burned down her cheeks, hot and angry. Jean distantly heard the sound of breaking glass, and something inside her broke too. Her hands wrenched forward, spreading out to her side. Shaking, she saw them start to glow, gold and red and and pink and purple, like the flames of a bonfire. She bared her teeth, and the cage inside her burst.

Mastermind took hurried, stilted steps back, staring at her glowing form. Heatless flames and bursts of pure energy writhed around her. “What the hell—”

Jean _screamed._

The noise she made wasn’t human or mutant — it was angry and primal and powerful, and though she didn’t see the pulse of psychic energy that she unleashed throughout the building, she felt it. The pulse was fire and life and strength and _freedom_.

Jean stared at Wyngarde — he was not a true mutant, and not worthy of a mutant name — with eyes of molten gold and pure, sheer _hatred. “No one controls me. And no one who binds mutants deserves to call themself one._ ”

Except she didn’t feel like a mutant anymore. She felt like a being made of pure energy, of thought and rage and love. Her body shook, electrons and molecules vibrating at the very basis of the universe. Throughout the facility, she felt dozens of mutant minds spark with newfound freedom and power, like children who’d been kept in a dark room for years taking in sunlight for the first time.

 _I did that,_ Jean thought in awe. _I freed them._

As though the realization itself winded her, Jean fell to her hands and knees, panting in exhaustion. The light died down, buried inside her once more. Her head lurched and her elbows trembled with the effort of holding her up. She shuddered, trying not to retch.

Wyngarde stared at her with wide eyes. “You . . . you little _bitch!_ ”

He started to come at her again then, and Jean, sprawled out on the floor in exhaustion, knew she didn’t have the strength to stop him.

She didn’t have to. 

Wyngarde was wrenched backwards as someone wrapped strong ivory hands around his neck and _pulled_ , throwing him back. Wyngarde reached a hand up to his head, doubtless to control his attacker, but the mutant was relentless, face twisted in fury, porcelain-white face and hair of the same color stained red with blood. A leg kicked out, catching Wyngarde in the stomach and shoving him to the ground. Shocked and winded, Wyngarde couldn’t stop the man from grabbing him by the head and holding him in place. The mutant stared at him with a look of total focus, demanding his powers to obey.

They did.

Glowing white bolts of electricity coursed through the man’s body, around his arms and chest, forming a wreath above his head. He concentrated, feeling it flow and spark through his blood. Staring into Wyngarde’s spoilt-yellow eyes, he told it to go into his brain, to find the electrical signals in his nerves and disrupt them. It wasn’t difficult like he might have thought. It was perfectly, beautifully instinctive. 

Wyngarde screamed and thrashed under his hands. He never wavered.

When it was done, Wyngarde’s body slipped to the ground. The mutant stumbled to his feet, exchanging tired, shocked looks with Jean. 

Jean was too stunned to even react. He looked so different, hair as white as the snow outside, blood and painful cuts lacing over his face and hand, pale complexion marred with red. “Jakob . . .”

She passed out. 

Jakob, staring at his twin’s body, took a few painful steps towards her before falling to the ground.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚡🔥⚡🔥⚡🔥⚡🔥  
> dun dun DUN
> 
> Next Saturday's (I said monday here for some reason before??? soz) chapter will be the final chapter of part two! I will probably take about 3 weeks off in between parts 2 and 3 so I have time to write a few chapters (classes have started back up where I am, so right now I'm writing about 1-2 chapters a week, so I could definitely use the time). I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and good luck in whatever's going on in your lives!


	26. Electrokinesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakob is reunited with his parents and sister.

Jean woke first, in a small white room she recognized distantly as the infirmary at the X-Men’s HQ. A vase of blooming red flowers on a shelf was the only decoration. Being underground, there were no windows. The room was bare except for two hospital beds and an expansive set of monitoring equipment, and a set of couches that had not been there before where Charles and Erik lay in fitful sleep. 

In the other bed was Jakob.

Jean knew immediately that her brother was in worse condition than her. He was still unconscious, propped up with his head elevated and papery eyelids shut. His face seemed even paler than usual, a death-kissed statue made of porcelain, with steel-sharp jaw and cheeks. Smooth skin was occasionally disrupted by dark stitches where glass had cut him. His left hand was bandaged to hide the palm. He had an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He looked so peaceful that for a moment Jean panicked before the obnoxious beeping of a monitor told her he was alive.

His hair was white.

The sight pulled at something buried within her, some half-forgotten series of memories from childhood when it seemed like nothing could touch them. Jakob had pale hair when he was young, didn’t he? Very light blond, soft as down. Then when they were seven or so, it changed, becoming dark with a sudden onset of melanin. Now he looked . . . mutant.

He would like that.

Jean squirmed uncomfortably in bed, running her hands around until she found a lever to pull down the metal bar keeping her from falling on the floor in her sleep. She tried to get her legs over the edge, but wires pulled her back to the bed, tubes inserted into the vein of her inner elbow, electrodes monitoring her brain and heart activity. She blinked warily, trying to pull them out and wincing at the feeling of a poorly-removed needle. The heart monitor stopped pulsing.

Charles jerked awake immediately, eyes wide. He looked at Jakob, then Jean, letting out a breath of relief. “Bloody hell, Jean,” he muttered. 

Erik, who’d been curled up with his head resting in Charles’s lap and one of his husband’s hands in his hair, woke as soon as the other spoke, steel-eyes blinking and taking in the sight before him with an almost analytical precision. He softened when he saw her. “ _Schatz_.”

Then her _Vater_ was up and walking over, pushing Jean back down into the bed. Despite how gentle he was, Jean went down like a rock, squeaking out a pained breath. Her vision swarmed. The burst of energy that had gotten her even that far was gone now, leaving her exhausted, ready to sleep for a thousand years. She cast her head to the side, staring at Jakob’s still form. “Is he . . .”

“Alive,” Charles said. She noticed the way his normally lively expression was drawn and pained, new lines around his eyes suggesting his age. 

More than that, there was something just under the surface of her mind, close enough that if it were an ocean, she would only have to skim her fingers along the water to make it out. A complicated and exhausting mixture of anxiety and fear and grief and love and relief and victory. 

At first, she’d thought it was only herself that she could sense, closed off to the rest of the world with unconsciousness. Now, the feelings burst into painful life inside her — not only hers, but Dad’s and Papa’s and even Jakob’s, blissfully unaware to everything happening around him. Her skin was hot to the touch, sensitive and crawling with prickles. Every brush of fabric sent waves of sensation through her body, some pleasant, some painful, some that were just too _much_. The light was too bright, shifting in waves of white and yellow and blue and green, even as she instinctively realized that they were just normal cool-toned LEDs to everyone else. She blinked, trying to focus on the people in front of her and not the dust motes swimming through the air. Even then, she felt the blood rushing through her veins. It wasn’t agitated or sluggish, but she still felt its presence, as surely as she felt the nerves firing off pulses of electricity and chemicals in her brain. 

She laid back in bed, overwhelmed by a broken dam’s worth of sensation, eyes drifting shut as she distantly heard her Dad ask her something. “Don’t worry,” Jean said, slurring her words, not even realizing that they were more telepathic than vocal. _I’m fine . . ._

* * *

Erik stood vigil over Jakob and Jean for three days. Jean was awake for much of the second, and endured Charles’s pained mixture of scolding and reassurance with grace, sipping orange juice and submitting to Elixir and Hank McCoy’s tests until she was deemed healthy, if a bit reactive. She still hadn’t left the infirmary, staying there with Charles and Erik instead. Rather than sleep on the free couch, Jean rested half-between, half-on her fathers with her head on Charles’s arm and her feet curled up in Erik’s lap. There was a dazed, clouded look in her eyes that didn’t leave no matter how much someone tried to distract her or draw her attention. She switched between staring at the flowers and staring at Jakob.

Erik didn’t speak.

He didn’t sleep, either. At least, never more than an hour at a time, and usually not that much, resting in blinks and cat naps when Charles forced him to. The rest of the time he was awake and alert, stood in between the twin beds like a guardian made from steel, ready to leap to their defense at the slightest provocation.

 _Not that it matters now_ , he thought bitterly. _I wasn’t there when they needed me._

He swore to protect them. He swore that he would never let anything bad happen to them. What did he call this? _I made a promise._ When the twins were born, he could hardly sleep for a month, too terrified of something happening to them and being unable to stop it. And now his worst fear had come true. 

How pathetic he was — how horrible and _useless_ — to fail in protecting his family a second time.

Jean shifted against him in her sleep. Erik leaned over and very gently kissed her forehead, patting her back until she rested again. His guilt didn’t go with her. Jakob wasn’t the only one he’d failed, even if they didn’t know it. 

Charles was asleep on the other end of the couch. Jean, who’d been resting on him, suddenly moved and twisted until she was laying on Erik instead, wrapping a hand around his upper arm and stretching her mouth wide as she yawned. Erik’s heart ached. “ _I’m sorry_ ,” he whispered, but no one heard him.

* * *

The first time Jakob was aware of other people, they were arguing. He was barely lucid enough to place names to voices.

“Why didn’t you call us?!”

_Wanda._

“We talked about this.” _Dad._ “We didn’t want the Avengers to interfere—”

“He’s our _brother!_ ” _Pietro. “_ We wouldn’t have—”

“And he’s my son. I made a decision.”

“You’re always _doing this—_ ”

But that was all he knew before sinking back into unconsciousness.

The next time, Jakob was lucid long enough to hear and understand far more. Charles and Erik were there, speaking in hushed, _angry_ tones. 

And someone else. Phoebe, typically so clear and dreamy, her voice turned worried and defensive.

“. . . have _any idea_ what it was like seeing him like that?! Half-suffocated, delirious, out of his mind, bleeding — I thought he would die a thousand times on the jet!”

 _Dad_ , Jakob thought, too out of it to even be surprised at his father’s tone. How many times had he heard Charles angry in his life? Not more than a handful, surely. But now he was ranting himself into a passion. Jakob stirred, but couldn’t bring himself to wake up fully, his mind still fuzzy, unsure if what he was hearing was even real.

“ _I know_ ,” Phoebe said, sounding frustrated and frazzled and not at all herself. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what happened.”

A pause. Erik asked, “What do you mean you—”

“I mean, I didn’t know it would happen!” Phoebe let out a staggering breath. Jakob heard someone take a step back. “I didn’t . . . I haven’t been able to see everything that’s been happening recently. I don’t know what it is. My mind has been . . . Painful. And clouded. I keep getting headaches, migraines. As though I’m trying to squint through a clouded window but can’t make anything out.”

Another pause. Then . . . 

Jakob drifted in and out of consciousness several more times before he could move, catching snippets of conversation, people talking to him as much as each other. When he finally woke, his body ached and groaned with every half-movement. He felt half-dead. He was sure he looked like it, too.

But the other half was _alive._

Jakob rested for at least half an hour before deciding to move. He sat up slowly, distantly aware of the infirmary, of other people sleeping in chairs and couches around him. He ignored them. There was a small white door that led to a bathroom. It became his goal.

Jakob carefully, calculatingly, removed his oxygen max and each of the wires and needles attached to him before putting his legs over the side of the bed. His feet were dead under him. Each movement was an effort. Jakob rubbed his hands into his thighs and calves, forcing the feeling back into them, hissing. It took another five minutes to stand up. The floor was cold. He put a hand on the infirmary bed and pushed himself up, wincing. The first few steps were painful and stumbling, sending shockwaves through his thighs and back. He almost fell against a wall, wincing at the noise. No one else was in the room, but he doubted it would stay that way for long. He had to make it. He had to _know_. 

Slowly, turning his shoulder into the wall and pushing his palms against the plaster, he walked himself to the bathroom and flipped the switch. Something coursed under the layers of wood and paint and metal, something bright and alive and sparking. Still, he didn’t let himself give into hope. That was almost as bad as giving into despair. 

The lights came on. He looked in the mirror above the sink. 

Relief flooded him all at once, a tsunami come to wash away the stones that had weighed down his back and shoulders for so long. He almost collapsed, barely catching himself on the bathroom counter as choked gasps of breath pulled their way out of his lungs. Cries turned into laughter — which quickly ended when he felt the raw, flayed edges of his throat. He looked up again and stared at himself.

His eyes were white. 

Really, they were almost _opal_. Pale irises, standing out from the sclera on account of the latter’s thin lines and red blood vessels. He turned his face to examine the left one closer. Iridescent color flickered in and out of the white ring, changing with the light, one moment blue, now pink, now purple, now gold, now silver, there one instant and gone as soon as you tried to make it out. 

Really, his hair seemed almost secondary in comparison. Snow-white, with a platinum sheen when the light caught it. He would have laughed in shock and delight if he could, running a hand through the wintry locks. Had his hair ever been this soft? Probably not. 

When he drew his hand back, he sensed something else, something faint. _Static?_

His smile grew. Turning his hand over, he summoned that hidden force that lay at rest beneath his skin, accessible only through instinct and sheer force of will. He had both in spades.

Sparks of electricity came to life, flickering between his pale fingers. He flexed his hand, watching them turn from white to blue and back again. Clenching a fist, he squeezed and flexed the muscles in his forearm. Lightning hummed through and amongst his blood and tendons, ready and eager and _powerful_. This time, Jakob didn’t even mind how much it hurt to laugh. No other sound was strong enough to encompass the sheer, rising _joy_ he felt in that moment. 

He had just enough consciousness hear someone shouting at him as he fell to the ground. 

* * *

The next time Jakob woke up, he wasn’t alone. 

_Fuck._

“Language,” Charles said tiredly, reading from a journal before he froze in place, slowly turning to face his son. He dropped the journal in his lap, cursing. “ _Bloody hell, Jakob._ ” He stood up, immediately coming over to the hospital bed and staring down at his son, cupping his face and brushing his hair from his forehead. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“I feel fine, Dad.” It was true. His voice was raspy from a torn and aching throat, his left hand stung from where his palm had been cut, and there was hardly an inch on his body that didn't ache or hurt somehow.

And it was _wonderful._

Erik had been resting with his eyes closed, but now he stood on the opposite side of the infirmary bed from Charles, facing Jakob with a worried, exhausted look in his grey eyes. Jean stayed sitting on the couch where they’d been a moment ago, one hand on the armrest as though to push herself up at any moment. Jakob frowned, wondering—

 _Pietro and Wanda are at the house,_ Jean informed him telepathically. _They couldn’t get to sleep here. They’re . . . well, they’re fine, just. Testy._

Jakob was about to ask more, but then Charles was speaking, concern gleaming in his eyes. “Truly? You’re certain?”

Charles’s question was not unusual. What _was_ unusual was how Jakob felt in response — a small but growing pit of fear and anxiety and worry, starting in his stomach and spreading through his limbs. It ached.

“I’m sure. I’m doing a lot better.”

“Thank _God_ ,” Charles muttered, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his son’s forehead. Then worry swiftly gave way to anger (and, _oh, that feels weird_ ) as Charles wrapped his hands around the bed rails. “I swear to _bloody fucking Hell, Jakob, if I loved you any less I would strangle you!_ ”

“If you loved me less, you wouldn’t feel this strongly about it,” Jakob pointed out. This was a stupid thing to say.

Charles’s eyes were so wide, it looked like they might pop out of his face. It took him a minute to speak without shaking from anger ( _and Jakob_ **_felt it_** _, felt it and it would have been him trembling if he didn’t somehow instinctively know that the feeling wasn’t his own_ ). “You are going to see a therapist. You are never going to leave Genosha without Erik and I personally signing off on it. You are not doing _anything_ for two months that I don’t say you can. School, library, beach, training, _home_. _Nothing_.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re not allowed to close your mind off to me. I need to be able to know where and how you are _at all times_.”

“Got it.”

"No labs, no experiments, no training with anyone outside of the family— and for the love of God, _no talking to Hank."_

"I understand."

Charles glared at him. His emotions were overwhelming, drowning out Jakob’s own feelings and leaving him blind to the other people in the room. “No reading except for school.”

“What?! How is that— you know, most people _like it_ when their teenagers read!”

“Well if you had more things you loved, I could take those from you."

Jakob groaned, but accepted his punishment without further complaint. Charles gave him one last, mad look, before sweeping down to kiss his cheek, all the anger going out of him and replaced by spring-like relief. "Elixir said you should be well enough to come home in two days. You can read _until then._ Now, I have to go clean up your mess. _So_ many memories to adjust . . ." He ran a hand over his face. "I'll take care of it."

Charles grabbed Jakob's hand, giving it a strong squeeze. "You'll be lucky to ever step off this island again. I love you."

Charles left then, giving him one last look before closing the door. Then it was Erik, Jean, and Jakob, alone.

Jakob waited. Erik spoke first. 

“I’m glad you’re home. This is where you belong.”

Erik’s guilt and sincerity were almost as choking as Charles’s anger. Jakob bit back tears. “I hope I never leave again.”

Erik nodded once before standing. "You need your rest. And I have people who need to report to me. I'll check on you again in a few hours." Erik walked slowly to the door, intending to join his husband above the surface. He did not look at his son when he spoke for the last time. “Jakob. I would far rather have a safe human child . . . than a dead mutant one. I’ll see you again in a few hours.”

Then it was Jean and Jakob.

Jean held up her canvas bag. “I brought the homework you missed.”

Jakob’s eyes lit up. 

Jean passed him the bag, watching him shift through the bag for the astro and genetics and history books. “ _Danke Gott._ ”

“You can thank _me_ , while you’re at it,” Jean said with a half-smile that didn’t cover up the circles under her eyes or her drawn, waxy expression. She was holding herself up with the end of the bed, as though she didn’t have the strength to stand on her own two feet. Her usually braided hair lay limp along her back, strands of red cutting across her paler-than-usual face.

“ _Danke._ Du siehst aus wie Mist.”

“ _Thanks._ ” Jean was aching bones and oversensitive nerves, racks of pain and sensation overtaking her body every few moments, resting somewhere between bursting into flames and melting to the ground. She kept closing her eyes and wobbling in place before blinking them open, as though remembering she was awake.

Jakob sighed, carefully setting the bag of books on the floor before pushing himself over so he was only taking up one side of the bed and patted the other side. “C’mon.”

Jean tried to shake her head. “I don’t—”

“Bloody hell, Jean, I can literally _feel_ how shitty you feel. Just lay down before you break your head then they start yelling at _you_.”

Jean snorted. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t been yelled at.” But she did as he asked, levitating the bed rail down long enough to slide in beside him and pull the blankets up. She sighed, relaxing enough to rest her head on his arm. 

“They clear out the Weapon X facility?” Jakob asked.

“Ja.”

“Mmhmm. Apparently I did something with my telepathy. Helped free a lot of people who were mind-controlled.”

“See? Never say I’ve never done anything for this country.”

Jean rolled her eyes at him, resting into the soft cushions and pillows. Jakob pressed his cheek against her hair, soaking up her fear and worry and exhaustion until she could rest. _Least I can do._

“Hey, Jeanie?”

“Ja?”

“I think I have empathy powers.”

“Hm . . . already regretting your actions?”

“Seems unlikely.”

“Ha.” Her eyes drifted shut, but she still felt every molecule of cotton grating against her skin. “In that case, can you make me go to sleep?”

Jakob wrapped an arm around her shoulder, petting the ends of her hair. “Let’s find out.” 

Concentrating hard, Jakob tried to exude calm and warmth like Charles did when they were sick or had a nightmare and needed to go to sleep. But he wasn’t a very good Charles-substitute. So he tried something else instead. His voice rose in soft, rasping tones as he sang Erik's lullaby.

_“Rest my child . . . the day is over . . . The sun will shine when the morning comes . . . But now it’s dark and the world is calm . . . So let your eyes rest and fall asleep . . .”_

Jean fell asleep first, feet curled against Jakob’s thighs. Jakob's throat burned and screamed at him, but he kept singing, voice growing low and quiet, and felt his opal eyes slipping shut as he followed.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danke. Du siehst aus wie Mist. = Thanks. You look like shit.
> 
> *exhausted* See y'all in three weeks


	27. Optic Blasts and Weather Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Jakob meet two very important people.

**Part Three: The Phoenix**

_— 1982 —_

"I'm not afraid of what I've done, but I do fear what it will one day cost."

— Professor X; Powers of X (2019) #4

The truck rolled hard over a bump, sending a wave of panic through its inhabitants until they calmed down. Scott curled a hand around a handle he couldn’t see, fingers clenching painfully until he let go. He heard the scared mutterings of the other people in the back of the truck, a teenage boy and girl a couple of years younger than him, and a woman who made a faint hissing noise every now and then. Scott flinched whenever she did, acutely feeling the press of bandages against his eyelids. He’d always had a fear of snakes. 

The woman was the only one Scott had spoken to, and the only one he knew the name of ( _Cobra; how original_ ). He didn’t know what she looked like, but once when he’d tripped over something and reached out, he’d felt the leathery skin of a hood on her neck and shoulders. A moment later, she’d pulled him up straight, but it had been enough to silence the doubt in his mind.

These people were mutants, and they would take him to Genosha.

Scott shivered, feeling the distant cold of winter seep into the truck. He was only wearing a thin jacket with no coat ( _no time to grab anything_ ), and late winter in New England wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. _It probably won’t be cold in Genosha,_ he thought. _It’s an island, isn’t it?_ The farthest south he’d ever been was visiting distant cousins in Georgia. Even if he had anything other than the clothes on his back, what was he supposed to wear? What would he eat? Where would he live? _If they don’t arrest me._ Would they? He was _really_ wishing he’d paid more attention when they talked about mutants in his history class. Except he’d had a wrestling that week and hadn’t been thinking about anything but that. 

He wondered if they had wrestling on Genosha.

The truck hit another bump and kept moving. Scott winced, shrinking in on himself in a way that was foreign to him. He hated this. How loud everything seemed, every brush of movement, every scrape of a branch against a window, trapping him in his own head. No one was talking. Apart from Cobra’s gruff questions and gruffer answers, he hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone in days. It was making him almost as anxious as . . . everything else.

"What do you think it’s gonna be like in Genosha?"

The question was sudden and unexpected. Scott turned in the vague direction of where it had come from. He shrugged. “No idea. Never left the country before.” After a moment, he added. “Got a brother in Genosha, though. An X-Man, if you believe me. Lucky, I guess.” He smiled wryly. “For a given measure of luck. What about you?”

Bobby Drake, a fifteen-year-old who’d never imagined he’d one day find himself sitting in a truck full of mutants (of people like him) considered that. He thought about his parents, two middle-class humans, a housewife and a federal prosecutor who specialized in mutant cases. He’d tried to keep his sudden abilities hidden from them — wearing gloves so ice didn’t spread from his hands, taking showers so hot they left him pink and dizzy, forcing himself to calm down whenever he got stressed or emotional because that made it worse. It hadn’t mattered. In the end, he’d woken up to his family staring at him one night when he coated his bedroom floor to ceiling in ice after a bad dream. 

They’d seemed more frozen than him. Clearer still was the image of little brother, face dull even after he called the police and said that a dangerous mutant was holding the family hostage. Bobby fled then — he had to — but he looked back. Just once. Just enough to see the scared, _hateful_ look in his brother’s face when he did. It was the last thing he saw of them. The final memory of his home. Two days later, he’d been wandering a random street thinking about how empty his stomach felt when a man with odd facial hair and metal claws walked up to him and started talking about Genosha.

“No. I’m flying blind.” 

Everyone stopped. Scott really wished he could see the look on the kid’s face when he realized what he’d said. 

“Oh my God, I’m _so sorry—”_

Luckily, they were all saved from Bobby’s faux pas when the truck came to a sudden stop, jerking forward and throwing the teens out of place for a second as they squealed, then blushed over the incredibly embarrassing noise. Scott heard Cobra move first in the aftermath, the ring of military boots sounding against a metal floor. "There's no way we're at the drop-off yet." She banged on the divider separating them from the driver. Its opening sounded. "What the hell, Wolverine? What's going on?"

The man — _Wolverine_ — grunted. "Humans. Police. I'll take care of it." He slammed the divider shut again. The truck rocked with the opening of a door.

Cobra hissed. Scott imagined a woman with pupils so narrow they were practically straight lines, a great hood with dramatic black coloring rising around her neck rose. He heard a noise like a sizzle and something dripping — _Venom?_ Scott turned his head every which way, his frustration mounting. 

“Everything is fine,” Cobra said, supremely unconvincing.

The teenage girl was muttering something under her breath. Scott thought he could feel her rocking in place.

“Marie?” Cobra said. “They can't take you. We have a right."

“Rights still exist?” Scott asked sardonically, but didn’t quite manage to keep the fear from his voice. 

Marie sounded close to hyperventilating. "This can't be happening . . . this _can’t_ _happen— Oh God—"_

"It's _not happening,"_ Cobra said gruffly. Her mouth sounded full _(She’s_ **_gotta_ ** _have fangs)_. "Because we are _not going to let it happen."_

The teens sat huddled in the truck, hearing movement outside. Scott pressed close against a wall, straining to listen. 

_“. . . official Genoshan transport. We ain’t gotta go anywhere with you, bub.”_

_“We have reason to suspect that there are dangerous criminals in your truck. We have warrants for Robert Drake, Marie D'Ancanto, and Scott Summers.”_

_Dangerous criminals,_ Scott thought, dazed. He hadn’t hurt anyone, had he? Granted, he couldn’t imagine his school was happy that he’d accidentally taken out half of a bathroom . . . 

_“I’ll tell you where you can stick your ‘warrants’—”_

_“Mr. Howlett, one of those ‘children’ destroyed part of a high school with his_ **_eyes_** _. Another put a boy in a coma. I’m asking you to stand aside—”_

 _“And I’m_ **_telling you_ ** _to back the hell off before things get ugly—”_

Something happened — someone moved perhaps, Logan showed his claws or took a step forward, one of the human cops pulled a weapon out — and in the next moment, gunshots rang out, the sound of metal on metal and shouting.

Scott slid off the bench and sank to the floor, stomach churning. He covered his head with his hands. _Like a tornado drill._ “Jesus Christ—”

Cobra pushed Bobby and Marie down to the floor alongside him. He felt their jackets brushing against his arms, their legs next to him. _“Stay down,”_ Cobra hissed, going to stand close to the door. 

“We’re gonna die here,” Bobby whispered to himself, mantra-like. “Oh, _Jesus, we’re gonna die here._ ”

Marie cried, shaking her head. Scott reached out to them, feeling around for their hands. Both were wearing gloves. “No, we’re _not,”_ Scott said quietly. Then, stronger, “No, we’re _not._ It’s all gonna be okay. We just have to wait for—”

Someone knocked on the door. 

The teenagers all backed away, crouching behind their guard. Scott heard the corrosive sound of venom dripping on metal. The door pounded again. People were shouting outside, screaming. Cobra flicked out a tongue, hissing. 

Another moment, and the noise outside stopped. Cobra pushed them further back with her foot before stepping forward. A pause sounded through the tiny truck before the door was wrenched open.

Scott held Bobby and Marie’s hands, waiting to die.

Cobra let out a breath, stepping back. “Lady Jean. We weren’t expecting you.”

It was a good thing Scott had bandages over his eyes. Because they tried to fly open as soon as she said that.

“Dad sent us.” The voice of a teenage girl. Around his age, maybe. “We heard you had trouble.” The truck shifted when she stepped inside. “Is there a Scott Summers here? Havok was asking—”

Someone ran over on gravel, jumping up into the truck. A moment passed before he found what he was looking for. “ _Shit._ Scott?”

Scott might have collapsed if he wasn’t already on the floor. Someone knelt in front of him, reaching out to touch his bandages. Scott’s hands fumbled, finding the man’s shoulders. “Alex?” There was an undercurrent of fear and disbelief in his voice. He hadn’t expected to make it even this far. “Am I hearing things?”

“My voice, hopefully.” His brother helped him to his feet, slinging one of Scott’s arms over his shoulder to help guide him. Someone took his other arm. His fingers brushed against the ends of long, silk-soft hair. 

Behind them, Cobra was checking on the other two and speaking in the slow, soothing tones of a person trying to calm a spooked horse. “You’re going to be okay now. We’re gonna go to Genosha, and everything will be alright. We’re here. It’s okay.”

Jean coaxed and Alex coaxed him into standing. “Blink is outside,” the girl explained. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes now.” They stepped outside. Scott felt the faded light of a rainy day pass through his bandages. He could smell a cigar, and something . . . burnt. Something like roast pig.

Alex shifted direction, leading him around something on the floor. “Careful,” he muttered. “Lotta pigs lying around.” Shifting, Alex shouted, “Hey Cobra, you taking these guys?”

Cobra grunted, coming up behind them. “Mystique will want to question at least one. We’ll have to come up with something to explain where they went.” She sighed. “ _Lots_ of paperwork.”

Jean pulled them forward. Her arm was tense. “Cobra? Where’s Jakob?”

* * *

Ororo ducked through the streets of Cairo, putting her back to a wall and sliding to the side, muttering prayers and curses intermittently under her breath. The faux-gemstone laden necklace in her pocket burned with its weight. She waited one, two, five minutes before leaving the alleyway, hoping the men chasing her had given up.

They hadn’t.

Ororo whirled on her heel, ready to make a break for it, but a rough hand closed around her wrist, twisting her arm and yanking her back. She cried out, trying to pull away, but the sudden force and the strain on her bones knocked her off-guard. It took only a few seconds for her to be dragged over to a market stall. The man holding her in place gave her a cold, disgusted look. She recognized him as the vender she’d snagged the necklace from. _That’s not good._ He held a large knife menacingly in one hand. **_Definitely_ ** _not good._

Ororo her free hand behind her back, lightning sparking between her fingers. But she didn’t fight yet. They were just out of sight of most of the tourists and shoppers walking along the street due to the embroidered rugs and cloth hanging around the stall, but if she used her powers, that would quickly change. _Lose a hand or be beaten to death in the street?_ She was sure she could fight off a good number of people with or without her powers, but if she was surrounded, overwhelmed, or they had weapons—

“I’ll give you back the necklace,” Ororo said quickly, wiggling her hand around and trying to escape. “Just let me go—” The man held the knife up, his hand never letting up on hers. She started to panic, wind picking up in the street, responding to her distress. _“Please—”_

The knife, gleaming steel and sharp enough to cut through bone, came down, right above her wrist. Horrifyingly resigned, Ororo shut her eyes.

. . . and opened them when nothing happened.

Another person was standing at the stall then, dressed in all black with a hooded coat keeping his face from her view. His hand was pale and strong, long-fingered and nimble, and currently holding the knife away from her arm.

The newcomer spoke clearly in crisp, British-accented English. “My friend and I have somewhere to be. I intend to leave with her in one piece.”

Ororo bristled — she had no idea who this person was and she definitely wouldn’t call him a _friend_ — at the same time as the vendor gave them an unimpressed look. “Your _eahira_ is a thief. She will not leave until—”

The man took out a clip of bills from one of the numerous pockets lining his long coat, handing it to the vender. Ororo saw immediately that it was worth far more than the necklace she’d taken. “Will this cover it?”

The shopkeeper gave each of them a suspicious look. He didn’t seem happy, but money was money. He snatched it up, flipping through the bills. He grumbled something, but apparently accepted that they were real enough. Finally, he released Ororo’s wrist. She snapped it back, cradling her hand against her chest and running hesitant fingers over the sore joints. “Go,” the vendor growled at them. “Before I change my mind.” 

Her unexpected savior didn’t even glance at her as he walked away with a slight nod. Unsure, not knowing what else to do, she followed him, if only to see what he wanted. 

_Who is this man?_ she asked herself as they disappeared into the steady stream of tourists, civilians, and shoppers walking through the weekend market. _Why did he help me?_ And with no small amount of money either. _What does he want?_ In her experience, men like him wanted nothing good from women like her. 

When no information seemed forthcoming, she was ready to go sprinting off again when the man spoke. “I suppose you want to know who I am?”

Ororo bristled, less at his tone than the implication. “No. I would rather not know anything about you at all.”

To her irritation, the man chuckled. “I’m a mutant. Like you. That’s why I helped. I was looking for you.”

That created more questions than it answered. “How do you know me? Or . . .” She lowered her voice, aware of the people around them. “What I can do?”

“I’m from Genosha. A . . . representative, if you will. We became aware of your powers manifesting and your situation, and wanted to offer our help.”

 _Genosha._ She knew of it, but not in great detail. An island of mutants, and incredibly isolationist, lead by Magneto and Professor X. Everything else was rumor and hearsay. “What do you want with me?”

The man shrugged, still walking too fast for her to catch sight of his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. “Nothing untoward. Your powers would be valuable, but Genosha is open to all mutants, including those who want nothing to do with fighting.” Unlike her, he seemed to have no problem speaking of it openly, either uncaring or unconcerned with whatever attention he drew. “And our . . . leaders are very concerned with providing a home for those who have none. You don’t have a place to stay, do you?”

Ororo hesitated before answering. “. . . No.” 

She realized then that he was leading her away from the Nile river that was the center of the city, towards the treacherous and open desert that no one dared enter if they didn’t have to. How long had they been walking? 

The other mutant simply nodded, having expected her answer. “Do you want one?”

Ororo grabbed him by the bicep, forcing him to stand still for a moment as she whirled ahead to face him. His face was very pale, his features somehow delicate and harsh at the same time, like he was made of both porcelain and steel. His eyes were chips of ice, reflecting random flashes of colorful light, but reverting to plain, cold white when she looked at him head-on. He looked to be sixteen or seventeen, not much older than her, if at all. He smiled in surprise at her sudden movement, and she couldn’t tell if he was mocking or genuine. Perhaps both. 

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

He seemed surprised, apparently having not expected _that_ to be her next question. “There’s a plane on the edge of the city. Couldn’t exactly park it in the middle of the river. It’s not very subtle.”

“And what will you do to me when we get there?” Her life hadn’t exactly endeared her to the idea of trust. Whatever pretty promises he made, that didn’t mean he would keep them.

He frowned, now seeming honestly confused — which only fueled her suspicion. “You’ll probably go to the Academy. Meet d— the Professor. You’ll decide from there.”

“And if I don’t _want_ to go with you?”

The man stilled before tilting his head to the side, thinking about it. She wondered if he’d ever considered the idea that someone might not just go along with him easily. After another moment, he shrugged. “Then don’t.”

Ororo frowned, narrowing her eyes. _It can’t be that simple._ “Who are you? What’s your name?”

For the first time, he hesitated. They were alone on an off-shot street, the sun high in the sky and unhidden by clouds. It made gold and bronze flash in his opal eyes. His hair shone like platinum when the light caught it. “Jakob,” he said finally, voice low and earnest. “Jakob Xavier-Lehnsherr.”

It took her several seconds of careful thought to place the last name. When she did, her body tensed. She held Jakob’s arm in place as she called down lightning on his head.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back.


	28. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ororo and Scott arrive at Genosha.

Ororo sipped from a carton of orange juice, sitting strapped into a tiny plane oh-so cleverly titled an ‘X-Jet’ and occasionally glancing suspiciously at the boy sitting beside her. Jakob, charred hood pulled down to show his white hair, returned her look. “How do you feel?” 

Ororo wriggled the straw around her mouth. “I was struck by lightning.”

“So was I. We’ll live.”

Ororo continued to glare at him. Jakob smiled broadly. 

“We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” Destiny, another mutant and one of his father’s Captains, informed them from the cockpit. “You should be able to see the island, if you like.”

Jakob nodded his assent to Destiny before turning to Ororo. He gestured to the glass panes in front of the, looking halfway repentant for redirecting her lightning bolt back onto her. Ororo almost refused, but she didn’t want to miss out on an opportunity for the sake of pettiness. She unbuckled her belt and stood, Jakob walking behind her to the front of the plane. Leaning down and forward, she rested her arms on the back of a seat and blinked. “Oh.”

The jet swooped down and over Genosha, so low that Ororo thought she might be able to reach out a hand and touch the tops of huge, flowering trees taller than buildings. Some of them _were_ buildings, with stores and houses built into the canopies. Above the branches, people flew with wings as bold and magnificent as an angel’s or levitated themselves about the forest city. They dipped down beside a cliff, and she was shocked to see that pathways had been cut into the towering layers of stone. People walked through and amongst it, an underground village with hanging lanterns, beads, fabrics, and strings of dried food. As she watched, one person, a child, stepped out from the cliff into the air and rose through it, going higher and higher before setting foot on the grassy plateau. In the ocean, people ducked out of the water to look at the plane, waving hands at them. She saw human-looking mutants mixed in with those with gills or fins. They were too far away to tell, but she thought they were smiling. Hesitant, Ororo raised a hand and waved back. 

“You know, there are more buildings under the water,” Jakob offered. “Kind of a work in progress, but a few hundred people live down there.”

Ororo looked from him to the crystalline water, awed. _Hundreds?_ The idea of even that many mutants in one place hadn’t yet become real for her, never mind that was only a fraction of all that Genosha hosted. 

“It will hold thousands when it’s complete,” Destiny said dourly. “Many of them will be empty, until there are as many buildings waiting to be filled in the water as on the ground and in the cliffs. Genosha must be ready for the day that all its children come home so that we may home and care for them properly.”

Ororo didn’t have a response to that.

Luckily, it seemed that none was required. Jakob stood on the pilot’s other side, neither close enough that they were touching nor far enough that it was an impossibility. Occasionally he would point out a particular place or monument, but for the most part, it seemed silence was where he was comfortable. Ororo was just fine with that.

The plane slowed as it lowered, coming to land in the center of the plateau on the outskirts of a circle of tall, European-style buildings of wood and metal. Ororo looked at each of them in turn as the jet stopped moving, reluctantly curious. She didn’t say anything, but Jakob must have noticed. He pointed them out, putting names to each. “That’s the Institute, where the Coucil meets. The Embassy is right next to it. And the Academy and the University are over there.”

Ororo looked the Academy up and down, seeing children and teenagers and and teachers walking in and out, sitting in a courtyard and reading or goofing around with their friends. They seemed fine. Alive. Unexperimented on. It seemed so unreal, so dreamlike that she wasn’t even sure if it would still be there when she closed her eyes. Or if she wanted it to be. 

When the humming of the jet’s systems stopped, Jakob headed to the back of the plane, watching it open into a ramp and quickly running down, like he couldn’t wait to be back. Ororo was slower in following, taking in the sunlight and tall grass, the distant noise of people talking and laughing amongst themselves. She looked up. Clouds were gathering. She could feel the onset of rain in the air, the accumulation of water droplets and strengthening of winds. _Not long._ Would there be lightning? She usually couldn’t tell until it happened, not that it often did in Cairo. In Kenya it was more common, but she had not been there since she was a small child, and certainly hadn’t felt it coursing through the sky like she would now. 

She wondered if Jakob would feel the lightning when it came. 

“Where will I go?” she asked him, still half-expecting to be thrown in a cell in some unnamed, unknown place. 

“We’ll head to the Academy. They’ll get you your ID and enroll you in the school. We’re on break right now, actually, so you’ll have a couple of weeks to adjust without worrying about that.” Then, not bothering to wait for another question, Jakob reached down and pulled his tough black boots and matching socks off, flexing his toes in the dewy grass. His eyes fluttered shut, pale lashes brushing pale skin. A few small moles broke up the plain of his face, one under the corner of his right eye, another along his jaw, and one more on his temple. He had small, almost invisible white scars scattered over his cheeks and forehead. Ororo noticed, then wondered why she noticed. 

Jakob sighed happily, carrying his boots in his right hand. Not entirely sure what she was supposed to do, Ororo followed his example, removing her chuffed, worn sandals and carrying them in her left hand. The grass was wet and soft. Lively.

They started towards the Academy, alone now as their escorts brusquely headed to give their report, nto seeming particularly concerned with what the two teenagers did on their own. Jakob seemed to be in no hurry, and Ororo had no desire to hurry him. The faster they made it to the school, the faster the dream fell apart, and she did not know what she would do either way.

“This is a good thing, you know.”

Ororo turned to him, surprised that he had deigned to speak to her again. She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you know of it?”

“I’ve been here my whole life.”

“Exactly.”

Jakob considered for a moment before nodding. “I don’t know what it’s like to leave everything I’ve ever known— well, scratch that. But never in a good way. I know you’re . . . scared.” When she glared at him, he smiled in appeasement. “ _Wary_ , then. You think if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. But not here. My parents built this place to be a safe haven for mutants, and I’ve never known it to be anything else. You’ll be safe here.”

They exchanged a long, charged stare before Ororo gruffly returned to walking. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

She didn’t see it, but she could tell Jakob shrugged. “I guess we will.”

* * *

The mutant formerly known as Alex Summers led his brother slowly through the portal, the others close behind them. Scott kept whirling his head around, unseeing. “What’s happening? Are we going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Havok said. “I’m leading you over a cliff. You can fly, right?”

Scott rolled his eyes beneath the bandages, but stumbled when his foot landed on springy grass instead of asphalt. Havok, chuckling, set a hand against his back, gently guiding him forward. “Normally I’d take you on a tour around the island first thing, but we should probably get you by Beast and the Professor first. Jeanie, do you know where your dad is?”

Jean, who still had Scott by the other arm, nodded. “Yeah, gimme a second.” She froze in place, eyes flickering around. “He’s at home right now. In the garden.”

Havok seemed to expect this. “‘K. Don’t worry Scotty, we’ll see if the big bad Beast can do something for your eyes.”

“Oh, you’re talking _to_ me now, not around me?” Scott asked in annoyance.

“Yes,” Jean said simply.

Scott attempted to glare at her but couldn’t quite pinpoint where her head was. 

Behind them, the others filtered in, looking around at the Academy’s courtyard and the people milling around. Many of them were indistinguishable from the humans they were used to, but others were distinctly, amazingly _mutant_ , with things like blue skin, feathered heads, yellow claws, or multiple pairs of eyes. Bobby and Marie looked around in shock. “Oh, wow,” Marie breathed, dark eyes wide. 

“Jeanie,” Havok said, shooting the teens an amused look. “Take the new kids to Phoebe so they can get set up while I introduce Scotty to the Professor, won’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ll handle it— Jakob!”

Her brother walked into the yard, occasionally nodding at people in acknowledgement, until he saw them. He waved with his free hand, the other taken up by a pair of black combat boots. There was a girl around their age next to him, with pure-white hair to the top of her shoulder blades, brown skin darkened further by years of sunlight, eyes lined in kohl, and a white tank-top and loose pants that were old and worn. She looked at each of them with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, saying nothing. 

Jean looked her brother up and down, brows raising. “Jakob, you look . . . charred.”

 _“Ja._ I got struck by lightning.”

“Oh. Okay then. I’m going to see Phoebe, but Havok and his brother are going to meet Dad if you want to go with them.”

Jakob seemed on the verge of saying yes, looking between her and the girl walking with him. He paused. “I’ll go with you. I can talk to him tonight.”

Jean shrugged. “Fine by me.”

The hallways were big enough for them to walk three abreast, the twins on either side of the girl that Jakob had brought back from Egypt, and Bobby and Marie close behind in a cluster, the X-Men and guards from before having already left to group to head back to their respective bases. Jean gave the new girl an encouraging smile. “What’s your name?”

The other teen cast a look at her. “Ororo Munroe.” After a slight pause, she added. “Some people call me Ro.”

Jean smiled. “Jakob hates nicknames,” she said, as though confiding a great secret. 

“Names exist for a _reason_ ,” Jakob insisted. “There’s no need to shorten them.”

“Whatever, _Jake.”_

“I’m going to break into your room tonight and smother you to death.”

“Try.” 

They kept on like that, occasionally throwing out questions for the new kids amongst their own sibling banter. Ororo's eyes slid over them and the hallways they walked through, the doors labelled by class and teacher. The building was quiet in light of the break, the students mostly either resting in their dorms or down in the city with their friends or family. Or, like Jean and Jakob, training under the mentorship of older mutants for the roles they would take in Genoshan society once they graduated. 

Jean and Jakob lead them to a small room on the fourth floor as though they’d walked to it a thousand times. Jean knocked first, her movements jerkier than usual. Jakob gave his sister a long look, frowning. There were circles under Jean’s eyes that suggested she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her hair was oily, as though it hadn’t been washed in several days, and pulled into a tight ponytail rather than a braid. 

There was a question on the tip of his tongue, but then the door opened, cutting off his train of thought. Aquamarine, her distinctive blue hair falling in wild waves, poked her head out. “Sorry, kids. Phoebe’s not taking visitors today.”

Jakob frowned, partly wondering why Aquamarine was in Phoebe’s office at all, but mostly worrying that something was wrong. “Is she busy?”

Aquamarine, who had, over the past two decades, made a name for herself on the island as the X-Men’s head medic, shook her head. “Migraine. She’s been having trouble the past few days, but I can help you with anything—”

“Let them in.”

Aquamarine quirked a brow and ducked her head back in, turning around to exchange quiet words with another feminine voice. After a moment, she sighed and opened the door wide, waving them in. “Knock yourselves out.”

The floor of Phoebe's office was covered inch by inch in large, intricately woven rugs with pale gold thread through red, blue, and purple. Light, sheer blankets hung over the walls and windows in glittering shades of blue, green, purple, and pink. An ouroboros statuette stood on her desk beside a neat pile of papers and files, a snake whose eyes were chips of dotted red stone swallowing its own tail with an expression of quiet resignation. Phoebe herself was lying on an oxblood-red chaise lounge in the sitting area with a damp washcloth over her eyes, her hair falling past the arm of the couch and to the floor. Her faded yellow beach dress went just slightly below her knees.

Hearing them come in, Phoebe pulled the cloth away from her face, forcing a smile. Her eyes were tired. “Hello, dears.” 

Phoebe pulled herself into a sitting position while Aquamarine set up a tea set on the table, gesturing for the teens to sit on the surrounding seats. Jakob slid to the side of one couch so that his legs were thrown over an armrest, laying his head against Jean’s thigh once she’d sat down. Neither Jean, Aquamarine, or Phoebe seemed surprised by this.

Aquamarine twisted her fingers, boiling water in a bronze kettle before pouring it into a set of ceramic cups with loose tea leaves in them. Phoebe muttered her thanks, taking a delicate sip of steaming green tea, sighing softly. Her smile was a bit stronger this time. “Jean, Jakob, I can see your first missions went well.” She looked at the newcomers. “Bobby, Marie.” Her eyes brightened, landing on the last of them. “Ororo.”

The latter three stiffened, eyes widening except for Ororo, while Jean and Jakob casually passed a tin of biscuits between themselves. Ororo spoke next. "How do you know our names?"

"I know many things."

"Including how to avoid questions."

“Exactly.” Phoebe seemed amused in the face of their curiosity. When Marie looked to Jean for further explanation, she just shrugged in a way that said _go with it_. 

Aquamarine, jeans cuffed halfway across her calf and the tassels of a long open-knit cardigan dangling around her thighs, brought over a short stack of neat, cream-colored stationary and a red pen. Phoebe took them lightly, pressing down on the coffee table as she wrote out a series of words on each page. “These will be your dorm and roommate assignments. I trust you’ll all get along wonderfully.” 

She handed them to the kids, who turned them over in their hands, a divet between each of their brows. Jean looked over at them curiously. Bobby was in room 141 of the Muñoz Dorm with St. John Allerdyce, a name she didn’t immediately. 

_(She thinks it and a moment later a fully-formed image appears in her head of a fifteen year old with blonde-and-red hair, Australian, with pyrokinetic powers and abandoned by his own family when he was only a toddler. The memory comes plucked from the mind of someone who doesn’t notice Jean was ever there. She did not mean to do it and does not even realize she has until it’s done.)_

Marie’s roommate, Kitty Pryde, was familiar; they’d had a physics class together the year before, and Jean sometimes saw her in temple on the holidays. 

Ororo did not look at her card, but held it low to the ground, hand dangling. 

Phoebe smiled knowingly. “Jean, will you stay and speak to me a moment? In private?”

Jean blinked, scrambling to answer when a moment ago she had been drifting away in her own head _(and someone else’s)._ “Yeah, sure.”

Phoebe cast a look at the others, no less kind, but very clearly communicating ‘get out now please’. Jakob grunted and rolled off of the couch, belatedly picking up his boots from where he’d put them next to the table. He half-shrugged, gesturing to the door. “C’mon. I’ll show you around the Academy, get your IDs done. Jean, if you’re not home in time for dinner, I'll eat your brisket.”

“If you touch my brisket, I’m going to get one of your books and crease a page, and you’ll never know which one until you read it again.” 

Jakob scoffed. “You’re not capable of that kind of cruelty.”

With that, he left, looking supremely smug for someone whose copy of _The Descent of Man_ would soon be dog-eared. The others followed behind, even Aquamarine, saying something about vaccines and surgery supplies. 

Phoebe and Jean sat across from each other.

Phoebe smiled encouragingly. "How are you doing, Jean?"

Jean's eyes darted towards her, throat tightening. _Does she know?_ How hard it was becoming to even make it through the day, pretending everything was all right? Grounding herself in other people's minds so she could ignore the constant tsunami of sensation? Even now with no Jakob to hide in and Phoebe's mind as terrifying as her own, she felt the flood start to return, fabric prickling at her skin, thousands of hairs weighing her head down, the buzzing of an insect outside the closed window and someone laughing three floors down. She could make out the individual pores on Phoebe's skin, the veins in her eyes. Her head hurt. 

"'M fine." To cover, she quickly grabbed a biscuit and stuffed it in her mouth. The flavor of chocolate and mint exploded against her tongue. She grimaced. _Bad idea._ She hated mint with chocolate, but at least it was something to concentrate on, and if she did that, then maybe she would get through this conversation.

_(Or maybe you won't.)_

"I know it's a big change," Phoebe said, starting in the middle of a conversation as she sometimes did (she hated beginnings), "but would you mind very much being Ro's roommate?"

Jean blinked, relaxing the tiniest bit. "That's all you wanted to ask me?"

Phoebe frowned as though momentarily confused, but quickly moved on. "I know you were planning on staying in your family home until university, but it will be good for both of you. Ororo is someone who has not received a great deal of kindness in this life, and she needs it now."

Jean was so relieved that she didn't even question it. "Of course I will, Phoebe. I'll make her feel right at home." She'd been holding onto a dry shortbread cookie without noticing. It crumbled in her grip. "Promise."

* * *

Havok carefully led his brother to the Imperial Residence, walking up to the dark wooden door, a sharp contrast to the surrounding white. “Watch your step.”

Scott cast his head in Havok’s general direction. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“. . . Yes.”

Scott made a ‘yeah right’ face (quite impressive when you couldn’t see a third of his face), leaning heavily on his brother’s arm. Havok was about to knock when he heard a British voice call out from the backyard. “Alex?”

Havok stopped in place, redirecting Scott until they made it to the garden. The Professor was standing there, alone for once, shaded by a tall fig tree and slowly lowering his book once he saw the boys walking towards him. He looked as good as he always had, seeming far too young to have two children in their twenties. His white shirt had sheer vertical lines running down the front, allowing a faint view of his chest and stomach. Pale blue pants were cut in the latest Genoshan fashion, thin and slightly loose while still remaining respectable. Rather than shoes, his heels and ankles were wrapped in long strips of twisting white fabric — also a Genoshan fashion. His hair was long, only an inch or so above his shoulders, and there were a few lines around his blue eyes that hadn’t been there before, but other than that, he had changed very little in the past nineteen years.

Charles smiled wide, setting his book down on a table and opening his arms the way he always did when one of his original X-Men came to visit, the same way he would if it were Wanda or Pietro watching him. Havok gently inclined Scott in his direction, only letting go of him once they were in range of the Professor so he could hug the man who was like a father to him. Charles wrapped his arms tight around Havok’s shoulders, squeezing before taking a step back. He looked at Scott. “And who’s this?”

Havok pressed Scott forward, presenting him to the Professor. “This is my little brother. Scott Summers.”

“Ah. Yes, you’ve mentioned him.”

Had he? Honestly, the Professor would probably remember better than him. 

Charles looked at the clean white bandages that covered Scott’s eyes. “I assume this is what you were called away for earlier?”

Havok nodded. “His powers are like mine, just . . . y’know. _Eyes._ ”

Charles nodded as though this were perfectly expected. He reached a hand out, lightly setting it on Scott’s cheek. The teenager flinched, but didn’t try to shake him off, tensing as Charles examined him. “I assume you can’t control it?”

Scott would have rolled his eyes if they could have seen it. “Am I allowed to speak now?”

“Not if you’re going to be rude,” Charles chided softly, sounding incredibly paternal. Scott had to fight the instinctive urge to apologize. “Well, let’s see what you can do.”

Charles walked around behind them, grabbing Scott’s shoulders and positioning him so he was facing the fig tree. “I’m going to remove these bandages and then I want you to open your eyes.”

Scott tensed. “That’s not a good idea—”

“No one’s standing in front of you. You can’t hurt anyone. Anything you break can be fixed.” His hands went to work undoing and removing the bandages, allowing them to dangle limply in his hands. He patted Scott’s back. “Are you alright?”

Scott, scrunching his eyes painfully shut, shifted in place. “I guess.”

“Good.” In contrast to the teenager, Charles sounded perfectly certain and confident, every inch the encouraging teacher he was. “Now . . . open your eyes—”

Scott did so a second too soon. Red blasts of energy shot forward, making a sound like crackling fire, seeming almost _excited_ as they bore into the fig tree and cut a gaping wound into the center of the trunk. Charles and Havok stared, blinking in shock, clearly not expecting it to be _that_ powerful. “Hm. You know, Erik planted that tree for me before he even finished the house. It’s stood here for almost seventeen years now.”

The top half of the tree broke apart from the rest before falling to the grass, figs smashing against the ground in wet bursts.

“In fact, I think that’s my favorite tree.”

Scott, eyes closed once more, turned in the direction he thought Havok was, facing the house. “Am I going to be deported?”

Charles stared at him a moment before chuckling. “Alex, dear, why don’t you go to Seeder and ask her to send someone over to fix the tree while I take Scott to Hank?” He set a hand on Scott’s shoulder, sure and comforting. “We’ll do something for those eyes.”

* * *

“Okay, Scott, I’m going to ask you to open your eyes. Are you ready?”

 _Not again,_ Scott thought, sighing. “You’re the doctor,” he said with a shrug, trying and failing to keep the nerves from his voice. “Just say when.”

He felt it when large, furry hands made a final adjustment to the thick plastic sides of the glasses and heard him take a few step backs. “Alright. Three . . . two . . . one . . . _now.”_

Scott almost didn’t do it, his eyes stubbornly scrunched shut, a tingling sensation burning behind them in his sockets. Then he forced them open, determined to do that if nothing else.

The world was painted in shades of red — pink clouds, a purpling sky, deep-brown grass, and the scarlet face and blood-orange hair of his brother beside him. It was a shock to his system, completely different from what he expected.

But he _could see._

“It’s working?” Havok asked, looking between him and the furry man in the lab coat (who was either blue or purple). “They’re not gonna fuck up and make him kill us all?”

Dr. McCoy gave his brother an offended look. “It’s the same ruby-quartz from your suit. We have every reason to hope that they’ll work permanently. I’ll get started on a pair that are safe for sleep and send them over . . .” 

Scott didn’t even bother trying to pay attention, wandering around the training yard where they’d brought him to test the hastily put-together glasses, looking in awe at everything he saw, as though he’d been blind all his life instead of a few days. Everything he looked at seemed shiny and new, the training dummies and circular targets, sparring mats and clay pots for shooting, long wooden staffs and tall pillars for jumping to and from. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Scott said softly.

Havok grinned widely, slapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder, rocking him in place. “C’mon. I’ll take you down to the beach and get something to eat. This has been a long fucking day.”

Havok slung around the teenager’s shoulder and dragged Scott along, leading him out from the training grounds to the Academy courtyard and beyond. Scott laughed with him, listening to his older brother talk about the shrimp tacos and grilled fruit skewers they would have, the volleyball they’d play. He couldn’t help turning his head every which way, taking in the towering buildings and trees in the distance, the tall grass and scattered wild flowers. 

Scott was so busy delighting in his returned sense of sight, he didn’t even notice he was walking right into someone. 

Scott quickly backed up, quickly sputtering out an apology, coming to an abrupt stop as his eyes widened imperceptibly.

He couldn't tell if it was the literally rose-colored glasses or the simple fact that she was the first girl he'd seen in days, but something about her was . . . ethereal. Other-worldly. _Glowing._ Her hair, which he suspected was red even without the glasses, flowed down her back like an untamed waterfall. Her face, soft-featured and heart-shaped, yet not without a certain edge to her jaw and nose. Purple eyes large and round and pale and knowing. Gently pouting lips. She must have been as tall as him, maybe more.

“Sorry,” the girl muttered before quickly walking past them, tightening her hand around her bag as she headed for the set of buildings Scott and Havok had just left.

Scott stared at her back as she disappeared, only belatedly realizing that he should close his mouth. “Who’s . . .”

Havok arched a brow at him. "You interested in her?"

His brother's tone was surprised, which surprised Scott in turn — did he mean there were people who _weren't_ interested in her? _How?_ "Who is she?"

Havok chuckled, the noise quickly evolving into full-blown laughter. He slammed a hand on Scott's shoulder comfortingly. "That's Jean, bro. Magneto's daughter." 

Because while Jean was definitely the Professor's little girl, Charles didn't quite strike terror into the heart of every teenage boy who glanced at her the way Erik did. 

Scott paled. Alex laughed louder. "My condolences."  
  



	29. Animal Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean shows Ororo around the island. The twins wrestle for control.

Charles was chopping vegetables for dinner when the door opened, swiftly followed by the sound of Jakob rummaging around the lounge, neatly putting away books that had been left out and straightening the row of shoes by the door. Charles listened, waiting until it seemed like he was done before speaking. “How’d your first assignment go?”

Jakob stilled in the living room before making his way to the kitchen. He’d taken off his coat, leaving his long-sleeved black shirt stretched out over him. “It was good. Would’ve been nice if you’d warned me before changing my assignment.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charles said innocently.

“Oh. So you didn’t tell anyone to switch me to Cairo instead of going with Cobra and Wolverine?”

“Now why would I do that?” Technically, he hadn’t changed Jakob’s mission. He had only _suggested_ that it might be a good idea to Erik, who was perfectly capable of making decisions for himself.

Honest.

“Well, I’ll have you know it went wonderfully,” Jakob said, sliding the cutting board away from Charles and grabbing a knife, quickly fixing the messy cubes of cucumber that his father had attempted.

“Wonderful.”

“And I only got struck by lightning once.”

Charles froze before turning to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“It didn’t hurt. It actually felt kind of good.”

“What— JAKOB!”

“Like when I used to put batteries in my mouth when I was a kid. Tingly.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re being serious or not!”

“Well, my clothes are singed, so that should tell you something.”

Jakob popped a cherry tomato into his mouth, amusedly watching Charles sputter. Before either spoke again, Jean arrived home with Erik, the two of them speaking in low, hushed tones to each other. She blinked rapidly when the door opened, as though shocked by the light. 

Charles looked at his daughter warily. “Jeanie, please tell me your day was less exciting than Jakob’s.”

Jean shrugged, not looking at anything as she slid down into a chair. “It was fine, I guess. Um . . .” She brushed a hand through her loose hair. “Phoebe mentioned something? If you think it’s a good idea. I don’t know.”

“. . . Well, if you told me what it _was_.”

“Jean is considering living at the Academy this year,” Erik said with a pointed look at his husband. “Charles. Isn’t that a lovely idea?”

You did not have to be a telepath to know that Charles was thinking, _No, no, no it’s not, why do you say such horrible things to me?_

Out loud, he said, “Well, what do you want to do, Jean?”

Jean half-shrugged before stopping herself. “I mean, don’t most kids live at the Academy during school anyway?”

“Most of them don’t have families to live with,” Charles pointed out.

“I know, but that doesn’t make it a bad idea. And the girl Jakob brought back from Cairo is going to be there, and Phoebe said I should be her roommate—”

Charles cast a frustrated look at his son, as though the twins had intentionally been conspiring against him. 

“—and I kind of want to.”

Charles sighed, looking around the room for support. He and Erik shared a long gaze, softening under each other’s eyes. Charles sighed. “I suppose I’ll help you pack.”

* * *

Jean lay in her room after dinner, tossing her head back and forth. She ached. Her skull felt like someone was using it as a drum. She’d thrown the blankets off her bed, tired of them scratching at her sensitive skin, all the hairs raised on her arms as she was painfully aware of each strand of fabric, each _molecule_ of cotton. She couldn't sleep like this. _(She couldn't live like this.)_

Feeling guilty, Jean reached out for her brother's mind, easily finding him. Jakob wasn't asleep yet — he never was before midnight — and was lying in bed trying to read, but his thoughts kept drifting. He was excited, still buzzing with his first venture into working with Magneto’s Excalibur team, hard-won after the past few months of being on his best behavior following Weapon X. He’d enjoyed fliying in the jet, meeting Ororo and reassuring her when her feelings of fear and distrust overwhelmed him, eventually being replaced by cautious hope and neutrality. Jean smiled faintly to see how, weirdo that he was, Jakob even enjoyed being struck by lightning. 

Jean sunk into her brother's mind, leaving her own behind, vague and distant and only barely connected to herself or her body. When she opened her eyes, it was Jakob’s hands she saw, his astronomy book she read, his bed a single solid object beneath her rather than billions of parts screeching for her attention. Anxiety floating away, her brother’s mind a padded room shielding her from the world, Jean finally slept.

* * *

Ororo stumbled through the forest “pathway” alongside Jean, who walked with an ease that was part practice, part instinct, only occasionally levitating above a particularly knotted root. They weren’t alone. People milled around Heiligtum, walking in and out of buildings buried in trees or along the trails that connected the branches, going about their lives. Sometimes they nodded or waved at Jean, regarding her with a mixture of neighborly familiarity and hushed awe. Jean returned their friendliness with a cheerful smile, careful not to walk too fast lest she fall out of step with Ororo.

Jean playfully bumped the other teen’s shoulder. Ororo tensed, but said nothing. “We’ll get you some clothes first, then meet up with Jakob on the beach for lunch. Are you hungry for anything?”

“Not really.” She still didn’t know if she’d have to pay for everything. Phoebe had given her food the night before, eating dinner with her along with the other students who lived full-time at the Academy, but that might have been just for her first night. Or it might be a trap set up for later.

“I’ll probably get some frozen lemonade. But I should eat something substantial first or else Dad’ll be disappointed in me. I don’t know. Whatever’s good with you, as long as it’s kosher.” Jean suddenly veered to the side, waving Ororo along. “Come on. It’s this way.” 

Rungs were cut into the trunk of a tree. Jean dug her hands and feet in, climbing to the top, long brown skirt swaying around her feet. Ororo, looking up at her and eyeing the building on top that stretched over four interwoven trees, reluctantly followed. On top of the platform she emerged onto, a shop made of well-cut wooden planks and a thatched roof stood, having an archway in place of a door. Inside, she heard the sound of someone humming. Jean knocked on the wall before walking in.

A woman with ink-blue skin sat in front of a giant sewing machine unlike any Ororo had ever seen. Around the store, looms and other machines lined two walls, fast at work with no one operating them. Dozens of bolts of colorful fabric took up another wall. The tailor had black hair in a braid that reached the floor. A pale white snake was intertwined in it. Ororo assumed it was some kind of fancy accessory before its eyes opened and flicked its tongue into the air, staring at them.

The snake slithered through the woman’s hair, hissing. She raised her head, seeing them in the doorway. Her face immediately broke into a wide smile. “The little bird is back!” The mutant rose and crossed the room, leaning down to kiss Jean on each cheek. “Your new dress will be ready very soon, Lady Jean. Your last fitting is next week, nαí? It will be ready by then. The bamboo fabric is soft as silk, and the embroidery very beautiful. I’ve impressed myself. You will be the most beautiful young woman on the island, promise, promise.” She looked at Ororo, who realized that she had two sets of eyes, all of them black and pit-like. “And who is this young lady?”

“Ororo just got to Genosha yesterday,” Jean explained. “Ro, Arachne makes clothes for a lot of the kids who come to the Academy.”

Arachne held a six-fingered hand out to Ororo. She took it, carefully shaking. The snake appeared to have gone back to sleep, resting along the crown of her head. Arachne nodded knowingly. “You need clothes, of course. I know. Come, I’ll take your measurements.”

Then she was being pulled into another room, letting out a surprised squeak that she hoped the others didn’t hear. Directing her to a small pedestal, Arachne took out a roll of twine, pulling it tight around Ororo’s stomach, legs, and arms, stretching it across her back and bust, cutting off pieces when she had her measurements. “I will have a wardrobe for you in one week, no less. There are some things already made that you can wear until then. I think you will need a nice dress for the party too? Or a suit? What do you like?”

Ororo did her best to answer Arachne’s barrage of questions, most of them relating to colors and styles and other things she hadn’t exactly had much time to think about while trying to survive as an orphan on the streets of Cairo. She looked up nervously as Arachne brought over a bolt of white linen and another of black cotton. “How much will all this cost?”

Arachne waved her question off, but Jean answered. “The Academy takes care of it. Don’t worry.”

Ororo scoffed. “I understand that you haven’t known me long, but that’s not an option.”

Jean smiled, knowing and kind and a little sad all at once. “It costs nothing, Ro, I promise. Dad wouldn’t stand for it. It comes with the island.”

Ororo gave her one last look, not entirely believing it, but armed with the conversation in case she had to argue her case with someone in the future.

By the time they were done, Ororo’s stomach was growling and she had bags full of cotton clothes and shoes, along with a few small things of jewelry that Jean suggested she get. Jean levitated the bags down when they left, then carried the one filled with sandals and boots when they were on land again. Her eyes were oddly clouded, distant and far away. Ororo looked at her with unwilling concern. “Are you alright?”

Jean immediately snapped out of it, turning to Ororo with a forced smile. “We should get to the beach! Jakob’s probably already there.” 

She wrapped a hand around Ororo’s wrist, pulling her along to the beach with a little too much force. Rain clouds were gathering, but hadn’t broken yet. No one seemed inclined to leave, reclining in the sand, splashing in the water, or eating at one of the wooden tables that dotted the long stretch of land. “Clearwater is the one people usually mean when they say ‘the beach’,” Jean explained belatedly, scanning the horizon. “It’s in the south, so it’s closer to the Academy. Whitesand is on the western border. That’s where everything almost went down eighteen years ago. There's even a statue, it’s insane. That's where the party will be in a couple weeks."

"Party?" Arachne had mentioned something like that, but no one had explained it to her.

"Birthday party," Jean offered. "Jakob and I will be seventeen. Dad and Papa put on this whole thing, and the week afterwards, we go back to school."

Ororo nodded, not saying anything in response. It was good — safe — to be reminded that no matter how kind Jean seemed, they were not the same.

Jean, eyes trained on the ocean, snapped into focus, spinning on her heel and heading for a small building with tables scattered around it. Jakob was there, sitting hunched over a table scribbling notes in a journal. He absently removed a spoon from a tall glass of frozen lemonade, scooping it into his mouth without raising his eyes. As Ororo stared, she noticed that his left hand, the one he used to write, suddenly jerked in place every now and then, a sudden, unconscious movement that made him sigh as ink spread across the page.

Jean walked up behind her twin in silence, ducking her head over his shoulder and shouting, “BOO!”

Jakob didn’t look up. “I saw you three minutes ago.”

Jean pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun. You’re just not funny.”

Jean gave him a dirty look before sitting down, putting the bag she’d been carrying beside her chair. Ororo followed suit by sitting across from Jakob. There were two more tall, frosted glasses of lemonade on the table. Jakob pushed one to each of them, sucking his spoon clean. Ororo took hers reluctantly, slowly lifting it to her mouth and taking a slow sip. It was sweet and cold, deceptively refreshing. She took a longer drink. 

For some reason, that made Jakob smile. He reached down into a canvas bag he had resting on the ground beside him, rifling around for a moment before pulling out a book, new and crisp. “I got this for you,” he said, shocking Ororo when he handed it to her rather than his sister. “You’ll need a copy for the Academy. I asked Dad for one with his notes.” 

Ororo took the book in hand, brushing her fingers over the cover. _The Genetics of Homo sapiens superior. Professor Charles Xavier._

She flipped through the pages, seeing where annotations had been specially printed alongside the original words. Her vision swam to see it all. Her own schooling ended when her parents died, but she’d spent as much time as she could over the years in libraries, stealing books along with money and food. Reading English would be a challenge, but not impossible. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. It was a kind gesture, if nothing else. 

Jean leaned on the table, smiling. “And you call _me_ a daddy’s girl.”

“Because you are.” Jakob smirked, turning to face Jean and pushing into her space. “You’re _daddy’s little girl—_ ”

Jean leapt out of her chair, grabbing Jakob by the shoulders and pulling him down to the sand. Jakob, shrieking, shoved her back. Another instant and they were wrestling, throwing each other around and kicking up sand, laughing loud enough that people stopped to look at them before moving on, as though this were perfectly normal. Ororo watched them with a mixture of mild concern and burgeoning amusement. Jean held her brother’s face in the sand, and Jakob tickled her stomach in retaliation. Jean yelped when he bit her arm, but didn't squirm away. 

They finally stopped when rain came pouring down on them, great swaths of water breaking out of the clouds. Some people shrieked and ran for cover. Others stayed as they were, completely unconcerned. Jean rose a hand like a shield, making the water slide away from her, never wetting her hair or clothes. Jakob just laughed, sitting back in the sand and tipping his head back, droplets of water falling on his tongue and his face. He looked so free. So at home.

Ororo wondered what that was like.  
  



End file.
